


Love Me, Hate Me, Love Me Again

by crazyparakiss



Series: Love and Regret [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Discussion of Abortion, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Past Relationship(s), Past Underage Sex, Post Mpreg, Recreational Drug Use, Teen Pregnancy, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 15:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: He’s almost through the day with no issue, and he believes it’s going well until the Year Twos come into the room. Fourth through the door is the blondest child Albus has ever seen--well, the second blondest, after Scorpius Malfoy when Albus first beheld him on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. But it’s not the hair that startles Albus. No. The boy’s eyes are what make the wind whoosh out of his lungs. Green as a Killing Curse, round and wide when they fall over Albus. They might as well be the Avada Kedavra because Albus dies beneath them.Shit.





	Love Me, Hate Me, Love Me Again

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's still not the sequel I promised. I got crazy caught up in wanting to write an Albus POV, post Scorpius's (and sort of meeting up where Scorpius's ends). It deals heavily in flashbacks, because while Scorpius's was meant to move forward Albus's was meant to seem trapped in the past. 
> 
> The issues about bonding are further discussed in the next sequel. Scorpius's family reasoning for bonding isn't happening in this because, clearly, it's Albus's story and he does not know that narrative. But basically I see bonding as something traditionalist, pureblood wizards would do for many reasons. 
> 
> The poem is part of a poem by Christina Hart. The book is being a dick on my Kindle and not loading for me or I'd tell you the title of it specifically. But she's pretty rad and I loved it so I used a bit of it for this :D (not my words, don't sue me) All songs Scorpius sings are by Bastille, because I had seen them in concert before I started this and Dan is inspiring. I own none of the songs in any way (don't sue me for that either)
> 
> You'll probably hate Albus a bit, but I won't say sorry XD

I.

_ “You are the love of my life.”  _

_ I am trying to forget that you said that. _

  
  


Lily rings him at the Mirror, one unremarkable Wednesday, “Albus.” Her voice is all command even though she’s calling to plead with him, “I need you to do us a favour.” 

 

Favours for Lily are usually horribly tedious and unenjoyable, but he loves her dearly, “What sort of favour?” Love will be his downfall. 

 

“Sit in with my classes for a day--there’s a strike going on about wages for substitutes and I’ve an appointment I can’t miss.” Albus is awful with children, but he knows she would only ask him if all other options have been exhausted. James is too damn childish to help, even if he’s in offseason. Dad is too famous and would rile the brats up. Mum is on holiday in Romania, visiting Uncle Charlie with Grandma Molly and Granddad. Albus is the only one who has a more flexible schedule, compared to some of the cousins, and he wishes he wasn’t so damn available. 

 

“When?” He finally responds, caving to the request. 

 

“Friday,” her grin is as close to grateful as Lily ever gets. 

 

Albus goes back to his sketch pad when she cuts the call, huffing out a dejected sound when he finds nothing about the design appealing. “What’s that noise for,” Dominique wonders as she steps into the office, in the back of her boutique. 

 

“I’m thinking it might be stupid of me to start my own line,” Albus admits, putting down his self-inking colour quill. Crimson bleeds across his parchment, but he doesn’t care. The picture was shit to begin with.

 

Dominique sits on the desk, crossing her ankles, tilting her head as she says, “I think you’re too focused on comparing your work to everyone else. You need to find what speaks to you and let inspiration take you. Else you’ll never get your line finished--you’ve already had a setback. Vic’s been ranting about that when she finds her way down the bottle.” Dominique’s pearl nails shimmer beneath the bright candles that burn in the chandelier above, and Albus watches as she taps them against her scarlet painted mouth. “If you force it, it will be shit.” 

 

“How wonderfully poignant,” he rolls his eyes, sarcasm heavy in his tone. 

 

“Come now, let’s have some lunch--you can brood tomorrow because after we eat Bristol is coming to shoot the pictures for our latest ad.” Dominique stands, grabbing his hand, hauling him to his feet. 

 

“What’s the ad,” he’s afraid to know--Aunt Fleur is going through her midlife crisis stage of life and everything is sex, sex, sex. More so than usual, as Louis pointed out a few mornings back-- _ at this rate we’ll turn into another classless smut rag.  _ Aunt Fleur hexed him something awful for that, and no one’s mentioned her vulgar tendencies since. 

 

“Heat,” Dominique replies with a saucy smile.  Heat is the popular scent Haus Delacour has been selling since before Albus can remember--the fragrance ads have only become more and more risqué. Albus’s first time posing for a Heat advert had been when he was fifteen, and his father went mental. Dad had kittens when he saw the image of Albus sucking on an ice lolly, his lips swollen and red around it, with his shirt unbuttoned. His dad was scandalised, claiming that he was “catering to perverts”. Mum wasn’t too impressed either, but Albus reminded them he wasn’t looking to get up the spout. He’d said something about how getting paid to look a little sexy didn’t mean he was fucking. That changed a little over a year later, ironically enough.

 

“Mum is thinking of having you oily and nude, arching, with petals of magnolia scattered around you.” Dominique’s voice pulls him to the present; draws him out of memories and back to Diagon where life is bustling around them. Christmas is coming. Albus can smell it in the cinnamon, orange and mulled wine that  permeates the alley. 

 

“Giving spank material to those poor sods at school, are we?” Albus knows the sort of image he paints in Aunt Fleur’s adverts. He also remembers James often disappeared into the loo, with adverts of oily Omegas in various states of undress, when he popped his first knot. Albus has no doubts that there are well-worn magazines with him or his cousins under the pillows of randy teenagers. He finds the thought horrifying and amusing at once.  

 

“My tits are going to be out--Teddy’s going to be torn between appreciation and complaining that all his mates will see them,” she cackles at the thought, and Albus smiles. 

 

“I can’t believe you’re still fucking him.” He can’t. Teddy and Dominique are vastly different. Dominique is a go-getter, and Teddy is a no-getter. 

 

“He’s got an amazing cock,” she sighs wistfully. “I want to quit him, but he’s like drugs. Only I get a nice glow after and my teeth won’t rot in my head.” 

 

“Cute,” Albus mutters, shaking his head in fond exasperation. 

 

*

 

Sitting in for Lily’s music class is a pain, but fortunately, it’s the older children and most of them manage themselves well. Albus is able to sit at her desk and read or respond to work obligations. He’s almost through the day with no issue, and he believes it’s going well until the Year Twos come into the room. Fourth through the door is the blondest child Albus has ever seen--well, the second blondest, after Scorpius Malfoy when Albus first beheld him on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. But it’s not the hair that startles Albus. No. The boy’s eyes are what make the wind whoosh out of his lungs. Green as a Killing Curse, round and wide when they fall over Albus. They might as well be the  _ Avada Kedavra _ because Albus dies beneath them.    
  


_ Shit. _

 

“Where’s Miss Potter,” one of the children demands--breaking the moment, and Albus turns his attention to her. Grateful to look away from that curious gaze. 

 

“She’s at an appointment; I’m sorry, I’ll be filling in for her today,” he looks at what Lily has written down for this particular class. And reads off various instructions-- _ Marcia is to practice minor scales at the piano, Gregory is to practice his flute piece for their recital, Tiffany is to take a test on note reading, Orion is to practice his cello piece for their recital. _ When he reads  _ Orion  _ the blond child bounds off in the direction of a beautifully polished cello. Albus reads off the other children, hardly noticing them as his eyes stay trained on Orion. 

 

“Your violin is out of tune,” Orion’s young voice carries as he speaks to a little girl at his side. Then after a glance at Albus, he frowns and tells her, “Give it here. I don’t think he plays.” Albus would be offended if it didn’t spook him how much the action reminds him of Scorpius. 

 

“My dad is touring with his band,” Albus overhears Orion tell Patricia Collins--the girl at the violin--when she keeps bugging him about why Scorpius won’t be there to watch their rendition of  _ The Warlock’s Hairy Heart _ . Apparently, they’ve a play on at the weekend, and there’s something uncomfortable squirming in Albus’s stomach. But he doesn’t feel like examining that sensation too closely, and especially not here. 

 

“What about your mum,” she probably doesn’t mean anything by it--Patricia is a sweet girl from what Albus has noted in the past twenty minutes, but she’s also new to Magical Meadows Primary according to Lily’s note by her name. So she’s not as informed as some of the other children are about Orion’s home life, which is a deduction Albus has made himself. The others and Orion have had years together and probably all know the answers to all of the questions children can think to ask. Most usually they are unaware of how absolutely devastating their words can be. 

 

Orion doesn’t seem bothered, however, he just shrugs when he replies, “Haven’t got one.” Then he elbows her gently, reminding, “It’s just stage blood when I cut out your heart.” 

 

“I know,” she frowns as a slight blush colours her cheeks. “It was just the one time I cried.” 

 

“Well, I don’t want you crying during the show. I want my granddad to be impressed.” He puffs up his little chest, seemingly excited to be the lead in the play. There are no doubts in Albus’s mind that Draco is internally beaming with pride because his grandson is the lead. Draco was always a proud father, and Albus is sure he’s an even prouder grandfather. 

 

The hour and a half lesson drags longer in Albus’s shaken mind. He keeps staring at Orion. The way his little tongue catches between his baby teeth, in concentration as he tries to move his bow and fingers through a more complicated set of notes. It’s strange to see him. He hadn’t known, during that awful day in May, what his child had been. It was always a thing, at the corner of his mind--a dream that was never realised and now the blob that had taken up that portion of his thoughts has taken shape. Before him now is the rather real image of a child he created with Scorpius. 

 

The scar on his shoulder aches, and by the end of the class he’s close to crying. 

 

*

 

“You made quite the impression,” Lily tells him when the next week passes and he finally has time to take her call. 

 

“Oh,” he hopes his voice isn’t wavering. 

 

“Yeah, most of the children were excited, but I’d warned them not to hound you for autographs or anything.” There’s a bright grin on her face that makes her appear as she had in their early youth--in the smile Albus can see pieces of his son and for the first time it hurts to look at his baby sister. “I said you’d be more likely to visit from time to time if they didn’t smother you.”  

 

“I’ll come take lunch with you sometime soon,” he promises, even though something is screaming in him not to make that commitment. 

 

“Great, you can see our recital practice if you come Tuesday.” She seems thrilled by the prospect, “It will help boost their confidence if someone else is there to praise them.” 

 

“What if they suck,” Albus teases in an attempt to strive for normalcy. He’s heard her advanced students; most are more than decent. 

 

“They don’t, I promise. Especially not Orion Malfoy--he’s got an ear for music. Think he gets that from his dad.”  _ He most certainly does _ , Albus thinks--knowing he hasn’t a talent for music. He can sing somewhat well, but as far as instruments are concerned he’s bloody useless. 

 

*

 

“Lower your chin,” the photographer, Nigel, commands and Albus does as he’s been instructed. His mind wanders even as he is praised for being so focused. He’s going to Magical Meadows after this, and his heart beats out a fast rhythm when he thinks about how he will be faced with his child again. He shouldn’t. Albus knows it’s a horrible idea--Draco Malfoy could near own his arse if he catches any hint of Albus involving himself with Orion. 

 

The legal jargon in the documents had been tedious when he dug out the old scrolls, from the forgotten draw of junk he keeps beneath his bed. All the things he’s never bothered to read until recently, and at times, in wordy clauses, the stipulations went over his head. What he does know, for certain, is that  _ zero contact  _ is clear. Bold and large it rests near where Albus signed away the fruit of his womb. 

 

“Good work,” Nigel tells him. Excusing him from the day’s shoot. Albus thanks the photographer and crew before he hurries to his dressing room at Haus Delacour’s headquarters. He cannot say that he regrets signing the boy away to Scorpius--Albus knows this as he stares at his reflection in the room’s large mirror. The silver frame of it gleaming as a hundred candles burn around the bevelled edge--illuminating Albus and the room with . He  _ is _ happy. Fulfilled, even. Doing what he enjoys. In these years he’s not truly regretted leaving enough to return or seek Scorpius out. Love is not something Albus would know how to live for, he’s too selfish and is painfully aware of that fact. Scorpius had been the giver, and Albus was the taker of their short love story. 

 

Even now he’s taking, he thinks, when he Apparates to Magical Meadows. 

 

The music room is dazzling with natural light that streams in from the wall of tall windows. Sunshine casts a glow over the children’s heads, irradiating them like halos--to Albus, Orion’s appears brightest. “Al,” Lily grins, waving. 

 

He gives her a small smile and an acknowledging tilt of his head. “Hey kids, today my brother is going to observe--I thought it might be fun to try in front of an audience.” 

 

“Why couldn’t it be your other brother,” one of the girls frowns. “He plays Quidditch, what does this one do other than pout for pictures?” Albus laughs, startled and amused at the girl’s boldness. Children are frighteningly sharp. 

 

“Don’t be rude, Rowan,” Lily waves Rowan off as if she utters this phrase quite a few times a day. 

 

“Does he at least understand music?” She snips, and Albus can see that Lily is growing tired of the child’s cheek. Lily’s never been one for tolerating cheek--it’s amazing she’s survived four years as a school teacher without Dad having to throw her in Azkaban for strangling a kid to death.  

 

“Shut up, Rowan,” Orion tells her--his voice a weak imitation of a grown Alpha, but the hint of what he will grow into is apparent. When Rowan looks ready to protest Orion growls, “I’ll put you on your arse.” His angry face is the perfect imitation of Draco’s, and Albus takes a step back in surprise.  

 

“I’d like to see you try it,” Rowan’s also got the rumble of Alpha in her and will not yield to another. Albus finds the posturing comical, after he’s recovered from his momentary shock, but Lily steps in--her own Alpha coming through her voice when she tells them both to knock it off. 

 

Rowan mutters something about Albus, he doesn’t catch what’s said and doesn’t really care--but Orion seems to, and when the snotty child is supposed to lead in with her harp her hair catches fire. 

 

“Orion Malfoy,” Lily accuses, but he stares up at her with the most innocent expression Albus has ever seen. “Why did you do that?” 

 

“It wasn’t me,” he assures and glances about at the other children. “Why do you always think it’s me?” 

 

Albus would bet his inheritance that Orion set Rowan aflame; he was the one twitching his fingers in Rowan’s direction when her hair caught fire, but he’s not going to tell Lily this. He thinks Rowan is a shit, and he’s not all that sorry to see her tormented. Awful as that is Albus knows it to be true, and this is why he isn’t the school teacher in his family. 

 

When the bell dismisses them, Albus lingers while Lily follows the others into the corridor. Orion also hangs back.

 

“You didn't have to torch her hair.” Albus's voice holds no judgement--more like the statement is a curious enquiry as to  _ why _ Orion felt the need to turn her into a human torch. 

 

“My dad is big on respecting all genders--she said something that was extremely rude.” His grin is just like Scorpius's when he flashes it at Albus, “Lighting her on fire was a lot nicer than I wanted to be.” Lily comes back in a few moment later, robbing Albus of the chance to respond and Orion calls out. “It was nice to see you again, Mr Potter.” 

 

He’s gone--like a fleeting gust of cool wind on an unbearably hot summer day--and Albus can’t help but wish he’d hurry back. 

 

*

 

He dreams of Scorpius’s tongue. The warm wet of it dancing after the toe-curling scrape of Scorpius’s teeth over his flesh. “Alb,” he husks--eyes glassy from the thick scent of Albus’s heat. “Fuck, I love you.” 

 

When he wakes his duvet is sticky with slick and come; Albus feels devastated. 

 

A devastation that intensifies when he accepts his gossip rags from a delivery owl. On the cover of  _ American Alpha,  _ there’s a rather lovely photo of Scorpius standing beside a stately Alpha who has a beaming, elegant bride on his arm. Most of this week’s issue is dedicated to Vivienne Greengrass, daughter of Scorpius’s Uncle Nicholas, marrying a well to do and well known American Wizard. Luther Rockefeller is worth more than any wizard on the planet, and he’s one of Draco Malfoy’s close associates--according to the little blurbs Albus reads through. 

 

_ Luther and Vivienne met four summers ago, beneath the sparkling glow of Paris’s night sky. Draco Malfoy’s annual masked ball set the stage for their fateful meeting, and beneath the sparkle of a thousand candles magic sparked between them.  _

 

_ “I was fortunate to be there that evening,” Mr Rockefeller gushed to their wedding guests. “Draco has long been a friend to the family, and if we were not such close friends I might have avoided that particular function--I’m glad he convinced me to come.” With a little laugh, he added, “Of course, my father was more of the driving force behind that--business means everything to him.”  _

 

Albus snorts, unsurprised, Draco Malfoy surrounds himself with the kind of sods who want to dominate the world. He remembers Vivienne from school--she was a few years behind him, a year after Lily if he’s recalling correctly. She’d been lovely from the start, both inside and out, and she reminded him of the stories he’d heard of her aunt--Astoria. Mum always speaks highly of Astoria when Dad gets on his rants about Mr Malfoy. “Draco is a prat but that’s no reason to insult his dead wife’s tastes. Astoria was a wonderful woman; I’d go as far as to call her a friend.” Or so she’s always said--back when Malfoys weren’t Taboo, before Albus screwed those little moments up, too. 

 

Scorpius’s grinning face pulls him out of his thoughts when he turns the page. In the moving image, he’s holding Orion, grinning and waving as the bride departs with her groom. Beside him, Draco appears less jovial, but his smile is warm; seemingly happy for his niece. 

 

_ “I’m happy for her,” Scorpius Malfoy said. His son was just as enthusiastic jumping up and down as he told his father how they were going to spend Thanksgiving in New York with them.  _

 

_ “I’ve never done a Thanksgiving,” Orion Malfoy half-shouted at his grandfather. Draco Malfoy appeared torn between amusement and annoyance. Scorpius Malfoy told a guest his father thinks American holidays are gratuitous.  _

 

When he turns the page again he finds page after page of the wedding. Vivienne is stunning in most of the shots--the one of her father walking her down the aisle is Albus’s favourite. She’s beaming and her eyes are wet with emotion as her bridesmaids follow behind to straighten her train. He flips through more of the pictures. Scorpius is one of the ushers and looks ridiculously attractive in his dark finery. His grin is cheeky, directed at his father, no doubt, and Albus feels a sense of melancholy as he watches the photo loop again and again. The picture of Orion, standing with other page-boys, has Albus stopping. He watches as his handsome child, dressed in champagne coloured knickerbockers, stands among the other young relatives--giving a rude hand gesture to the camera. It startles a laugh out of Albus and he watches it loop a few more times, shaking his head in fond amusement every time it happens. 

 

*

 

He frames the photo, keeping Orion on his bedside cabinet when he knows he shouldn’t entertain the feelings of love he has towards this boy. Albus gave him up, never intending to know him, and now--now he’s all he thinks about. There’s no one he can talk to about these feelings either--neither Lily nor Dominique knows and his parents have made it painfully clear that they are content to pretend the baby never happened. 

 

But he did. And he’s wonderful. 

  
  


II.

_ I am trying to forget November.  _

_ I am trying to forget the years prior.  _

_ I am forgetting to remember to forget.  _

  
  


_ Omega Monthly  _ has a photo of Scorpius Malfoy on the latest cover. Grinning in a devilish sort of way, and Albus itches at his scar--his stomach flip-flopping. 

 

_ Meet the Alpha of your dreams: _

_ Scorpius Malfoy,  _

_ Father, Singer, Dreamer _

 

He shouldn’t buy a copy but does. Tucking it into his saddlebag and hurrying away from the newsstand towards Haus Delacour. 

 

*

 

Dominique and Victoire are having an epic row when Albus gets in--Louis stands glancing exasperatedly between them. Albus is about to enquire what’s going on when Victoire solves that mystery for him. 

 

“I forgave your stupidity when you had his child,” she seethes, invading Dominique’s air--towering over her with her superior height and an added nine inches on her heels. “ _ Bonding him _ , Nikki, how could you be so fucking stupid?” Albus has never seen Victoire so angry, her eyes are wild, terrifying, and her fingers look to be sharpening into claws. 

 

Dominique isn’t intimidated in the least. She presses closer, into Victoire’s space and hisses, “What do you care? It’s not your life.” 

 

“It’s archaic,  _ owning someone _ , there’s a reason modern Wizarding society has moved away from bonding.” Victoire doesn’t cow to Dominique’s ire. The Alpha in her will not allow her to yield to her Omega sister, and Albus thinks she too has archaic tendencies. “No one in our family has bonded, because even as romantic as we are we understand the gravity of that decision.” 

 

“Fuck you,” Dominique rages, shoving away from her sister. “I don't expect you to understand nor do I care if you do. This is my decision and I’ve already made it.” 

 

“Have your consequences then, and don’t come crying to me when it goes belly up.” Victoire starts muttering beneath her breath in French--Albus catches the gist of it and it’s mostly cursing Teddy seven ways. 

 

Louis places a comforting hand over Dominique’s shoulder, whispering, “She’s furious because she’s worried about you.” He’s always been the calming balm that soothes them after their rows. 

 

This time his own special magic doesn’t seem to work. “Just don’t,” Dominique bites out, shaking off his hand before moving from the room. 

 

Albus doesn’t ask what’s happened--the situation is obvious--but Louis tells him anyway. “Vic flipped shit when she caught sight of the swollen bite mark on the back of Nikki’s neck.” 

 

“Why is she so angry,” he wants to hear the reasons. Even if he’s heard them a thousand times before--Albus is compelled to have them now, because he feels his sanity slipping. He needs to remember who he is and  _ why _ running back to his own bond is a fool’s game. 

 

“You know why,” Louis’s eyes are dark. “Bonds are deeper than anything, and Edward Lupin isn’t the sort of bloke who can bring forever to someone. He’s doing good just to bring her fleeting happiness.” Louis leans against the office’s bookcase and presses his fingers against his closed eyelids. “I always thought that Nikki was smarter than this.” 

 

Funny, Albus can recall his own father saying the same about him. The ache in his shoulder intensifies, and he doesn’t cave to the need to massage it--instead, he goes to find Dominique. There’s work that needs discussing, and he’s a few designs he wants to show her. 

 

*

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” is the first thing she says when he finds her--after he’s left Haus Delacour and wandered up the Alley to the small boutique of ready to wear Dominique runs. Her hair is up in a loosely tied knot, and the violent mark of Teddy’s brand is raised--red and welted--it reminds Albus of those panicked moments when his own bond bite was new. 

 

“I don’t care, Nikki,” he admits. There’s a weary edge to his tone, but it’s not for her, rather it’s for himself. “I won’t look down on you for bonding--it wasn’t all that long ago that people thought Omegas and Alphas terribly fickle and moral-less for not having a bond.”

 

Her blue eyes are bright, a sheen of emotion covering them when she glances back at him and Albus feels a pang of pity; he’s never seen her this unsure. “I just love him--I can’t explain it. Rationally, I find it abhorrent and insane that I would tie myself to him and allow him to be tied to me. It’s just...” she trails off, voice faint as her mind searches for words to describe what she feels. “I can’t explain it.” Even though she lacks words, Albus understands. At one time, and even now when he allows himself to feel it, he had been compelled toward the bond. There had always been something in Scorpius, something he chased mercilessly and then tossed away as soon as it was his to ruin. 

 

“I’ve always known,” Dominique admits, when the sky grows dark beyond the window and Albus realises they’ve sat in fractured silence for the day. He has a puzzled expression on his face, so Dominique elaborates. “When I was a child and we saw Teddy, at the rare family gathering Mother allowed us to attend, I knew...I just knew I would love him forever.” She releases a self-deprecating laugh, “Silly, isn’t it? There’s no such thing as a true pair--that’s the sort of shit that they save for cheesy Porno-Pensieves and those trashy romances Gran hides in her bedside cabinet.” Then she reaches for her bond mark, touching it with a wince, and mutters. “But I can’t explain how it feels. I can’t make anyone understand that scent or that feeling. Nor the rage I felt when he was with Vic--it ate me alive.” 

 

“How does he feel,” Albus asks instead, curious of Teddy’s feelings because he, like Scorpius, guards them well behind easy smiles and cheek. 

 

She gives him a sad sort of grin, “There’s the billion galleon question, Al.” 

 

*

 

He goes home with a listless feeling. Dominique reminds him of himself, only better, and Teddy reminds Albus of Scorpius, only less guarded. 

 

On his bedside cabinet Orion’s picture loops through his rude hand gesture and Albus thinks the image is mocking him. When he flops into the bed he stares up at the shadowed ceiling wondering about everything and nothing. 

 

*

 

He digs out the magazine he shouldn’t have when the hour grows late. It’s well past three and he is finding no solace to help him achieve sleep. The bit on Scorpius begins with a large photo of Scorpius, in artful black and grey, with the guitar Albus remembers from their youth sitting across his lap. One of his black filtered cigarettes dangles loosely between lips Albus used to know intimately. Scorpius’s long fingers dance through a series of notes across the fretboard, and Albus watches--mesmerised. 

 

The article is the usual questions, and Scorpius’s answers are honest. Reopening wounds Albus thought to be scars.

 

_ OM: What got you into music? _

_ SM: Heartbreak. But Lysander pushed me. _

_ If it weren’t for him my angst would just  _

_ Bleed inside of me for the rest of eternity. _

 

_ OM: What sort of heartbreak?  _

_ SM: Pass. If I wanted to deal with it,  _

_ I’d have gone to a therapist years ago. _

_ (sarcastic sort of chuckle) _

 

_ OM: Are you in the market for a heart mender? _

_ SM: Wow, you really asked that.  _

_ Um, well, to be honest, I’m not exactly boyfriend _

_ Material. I’ve got very little to bring to a person. _

 

_ OM: You’re attractive and rich.  _

_ SM: (Rolling his eyes) Yeah, somehow,  _

_ I don’t think that’s enough. Bit more to it, yeah? _

 

_ OM: What makes you a crap boyfriend?  _

_ SM: I have no love to give. I used it all up on Orion.  _

 

_ OM: What about Orion’s mum, did you love them?  _

_ SM: You’ve listened to my music, you tell me.  _

 

_ OM: Speaking of, are you working on anything new?  _

_ SM: All the time. But we’re preparing to tour so we’re not  _

_ Looking to start recording until we’re back from all that.  _

_ Lysander doesn’t do well with multitasking.  _

 

_ OM: I hear you’re starting your tour in London,  _

_ But is there any place you’re excited to play?  _

_ SM: Honestly, I am always excited to play.  _

_ I’m grateful people want to come see us perform.  _

_ That still blows my fucking mind.  _

 

_ OM: You had little hope for this working is what  _

_ Lysander told us in his interview in August.  _

_ SM: I’m a terrible cynic. Good things don’t just  _

_ Happen for Scorpius Malfoy. So, yes, I was wary. _

 

_ OM: Your son was a good thing.  _

_ SM: (Wearing a proud smile) Yes. I’d dare say  _

_ He’s the best thing. But, to be honest, I didn’t  _

_ Expect him to be the best thing in my life.  _

_ Do the maths, I was a young father--clueless.  _

_ Selfish, too, and if it weren’t for Draco I might not  _

_ Have this happiness. He really made me into the  _

_ Dad that I am.  _

 

_ OM: How does your father feel about your music?  _

_ SM: Resentful that I’m not working for free in his  _

_ Apothecary (bright laugher) but in all seriousness, _

_ He supports my dream. I think he’s always tried to  _

_ Believe in my everything--to be as different from his  _

_ Own father as possible. It’s not been an easy journey _

_ But I think he’s a great man, and he’s always a huge  _

_ Inspiration.  _

 

He doesn’t finish reading; Albus sets the magazine aside and stares at the picture of his child that he’s framed on the bedside cabinet. There’s the corporeal piece of himself that he does not know--the bit of himself he chose to send away. Lately, when he lies awake--unable to sleep due to his thoughts--Albus tries to remember  _ why _ he made that decision. The why eludes him; same as sleep. 

 

*

 

Dominique’s bond is the topic of dinner at Gran’s, and Albus wishes he could leave when Gran starts with how horrified she is about this development. 

 

“I just don’t understand why she went so far,” she shakes her head, hair that is more grey than ginger bouncing with the movement. “It’s been hundreds of years since bonds were common; they’re just so vulgar these days.” 

 

Granddad tries to be a little more understanding, “She seems happy, Bill says, and if she’s happy that’s all that matters.” Of his grandparents Albus has always prefered his grandfather; Arthur Weasley is kindness personified.  

 

Gran appears doubtful, “She could’ve been happy  _ married _ . What happens if he dies, or worse...if they fall out of love.” She glances at Dad, and gives him a pitying smile while she pats the back of his tan hand, “I know you love him, Harry dear, but Teddy isn’t the settling sort. He’s prone to having a wandering heart.” There’s still discord in the family due to the fact Teddy left Vic a crying mess, and then wound up fucking Nikki years later. He’d a rather crass joke about working his way through Bill’s kids first when Nikki first came up pregnant. No one had been impressed, except for James--because James is a fucking git. 

 

“Wandering dick is more like,” James jokes now--Mum smacks him in the back of the head for that, and Lily calls him a pig. 

 

Dad’s green eyes fall over him like he can feel how uncomfortable this topic is for Albus. He ignores the stare, trying his best to pretend his heart isn’t aching from his stupidity.  _ What would they say about me?  _

 

After downing his wine, Albus excuses himself from the table. James and Lily are too busy bickering to care. Mum’s rolling her eyes at Gran’s continuous worry. Granddad is trying valiantly to stay out of it, and Dad...well Dad is watching Albus like he’s going to say something that will shatter them both. 

 

He escapes to the rickety porch. Breathing in the crisp night’s air and it makes him remember Scorpius, in this exact yard, awkwardly standing off to the side--drinking the kiddie punch. He smiles at the memory. Scorpius had looked terrified in a sea of mostly gingers; it had been both endearing and humorous. 

 

“What’re you thinking,” Dad asks, his voice sudden in the stillness--shocking Albus but not startling him. 

 

“I’m thinking nothing,” he lies. Fingers tracing over the rough wood of the railing, trying to ground himself here and not root himself in memories. Reminiscing is what hurts him the most. 

 

“You know,” Dad starts, his tone unsure. “They’re just worried about Nikki.” It sounds as if Dad is trying to assure Albus that they’re worried about him. He wants to laugh, yet refrains. Albus is afraid it would come out a sob more than anything. Dad is stiff at his side, gazing out into the yard like he too is trapped in memory. Where Albus sees fleeting moments of bittersweet he’s sure his father sees the signs and is tormented that he didn’t spot them sooner. Didn’t save Albus from himself. Always the hero that comes moments too late, and Albus hates that his father sees Albus as a tragedy. 

 

Twisting the knife Albus whispers, “I remember when you shook his hand and made a glib remark about how it’d been a long time coming.” 

 

“Hello,” Dad had smiled, friendly--a hand extended for Scorpius to shake. For an odd moment, Scorpius stared at the hand, and after a silent internal struggle took Dad’s hand firmly in his own. 

“Hello,” he'd a deep, yet soft voice, and it sent a shiver down Albus’s spine despite how warm the yard had been. “Thank you for having me,” Scorpius was polite, but unlike his father it didn’t sound insincere. Draco Malfoy always managed to be polite and rude at once--Dad often said, in the past, that it’s a rare talent to be that big of a prick. 

“Thank me when you leave without incident and we survive our interaction without a Howler from your father.” Dad had meant those words as a joke, but--in truth--it'd been an omen. Albus knows that now, and so does Dad. 

“I’ve always loved you, Albus, and I always will,” it sounds like an apology, and Albus doesn’t acknowledge the confession. When no reply comes, Dad huffs out a weary sigh and makes his way back inside. 

 

Albus remains in the yard, recalling the soft tone of Scorpius’s voice and hates himself for how easily it comes to him--haunting his ear like an elusive melody. 

*

 

_ Bond  _ is the name of Aunt Fleur’s newest fragrance. She’s decided on using Dominique and Teddy as the models for the promotional shots. Victoire fumes over that news, sneering down at the promotional sketches and ideas Aunt Fleur has laid out on her ornate desk. 

 

“This is a joke, yeah,” Victoire demands as she scatters the pieces of parchment about the mahogany desk top. “It has to be, you cannot be pandering to these archaic standards of romance.” 

 

“No, I’m celebrating your sister and her partner’s choice,” Aunt Fleur raises her eyes to her eldest child, a cool appraising expression on her face. “Or are you saying your sister didn’t have the right to make that choice?” 

 

Albus wisely remains quiet while Victoire flushes in defensive anger. “Why do you make it sound like that; I’m just concerned for her.” 

 

“Treating her like a child is not a concern, it’s oppressive--I raised you better than that,” Aunt Fleur hisses, clearly done with this topic. “You preach about women and Omegas having a choice and, yet, Nikki made the conscious decision to bond the man she loves...so now you’re singing a different tune.” She rises from her chair, looking down on Victoire with obvious disgust curling her plush mouth. “Go home, child, sort out why that’s hypocritical and come back when you can accept that it’s none of your fucking business what your sister does, nor is it your business how I decide to run a campaign in  _ my _ company.” 

 

A near violent wind follows Victoire as she sweeps from the room, Albus tries hard to move as little as possible. His breathing is shallow, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, but his aunt hasn’t forgotten him--even if she pretended she had during her heated discussion with her daughter. 

 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she finally acknowledges him. Taking a seat again, Aunt Fleur directs her gaze toward him and tilts her head in a considering way, “Would you disagree with what I said?” 

 

“No,” he admits. Then with a furrow of his brow asks, “Why aren’t you angry about the bond? I mean, everyone else seems to be.” 

 

Aunt Fleur’s smile is enigmatic as she leans back into the seat--staring at him with eyes that are almost knowing. “I should feel so lucky that my daughter loves another enough to devote her soul to them for eternity, and to have him feel the same--well, that is rare.” She gestures with her self-inking quill, whispering, “People might think it foolish, and there are problematic issues in a bond--instances of abuse, of the partners falling out of love...but I ask you this, Albus, do you think that Dominique is being abused?” 

 

“Teddy’d die before he hurt someone physically weaker than he is. He only hands out sound poundings to those chavs that don’t know that ‘no’ means ‘no’. Dad wouldn’t lose his paperwork if he was a real shit.” Aunt Fleur’s smile is warm at his response. 

 

“Would you say that they will fall out of love?” Albus has no answer. He doesn’t believe so because he’s seen the way they stare at one another. Dominique is music personified to Teddy, and Teddy is more beautiful than fashion to Dominique. He’s silent so long his aunt’s smile grows mysterious, and she whispers, “Have you?” He feels his blood freezing in his veins, and goes rigid, but her expression is kind and she says nothing more. 

 

*

 

When he gets home, Albus strips before his full length, silver mirror and traces his fingertips over the raised scar left by Scorpius’s blunt teeth. 

 

_ Have you? _

 

Aunt Fleur’s question echoes through his mind causing him to search his feelings. The ones he rarely examines if he can help it--choosing instead to bury them deep and ignore them. 

 

The picture on his bedside table reminds him of a younger version of the lost boy he met on the train--all those years ago when he was off to his First Year at Hogwarts. There’d been a scent; sweet like the biscuits Gran snuck all the grandchildren before church and like the comforts of home. The aroma had been calming, Albus followed it to an empty compartment where a boy sat weeping. He can’t remember what he said, but he knows he gave him a sweet, and his brother calling his name pulled him back from whatever else he might’ve said. Which was probably for the best; something about Scorpius’s scent had made Albus want to spout poetry. At eleven his poetry would’ve been shit. The kind of shit that would make him die of secondhand embarassment anytime he recalled it, and so he’d been lucky James was there to save him from himself. That time, at least. 

 

They were sorted into different Houses; Scorpius went to the House every Malfoy before him had entered, and Albus was sorted into Ravenclaw--where he’d joined his cousins Louis and Dominique. Having different Houses meant they didn’t have much interaction at school, but Albus remembers always finding Scorpius intriguing. He was James’s age, in their year because his birthday fell after the beginning of term--and was one of about four others who had to delay school due to their birthdate. However it was Scorpius’s surname that kept people from wanting to interact with him. There were rumours, of course, horrible bits of gossip that only horrid children can dream up. 

 

_ His real dad is Voldemort, his dad had a Time Turner and took his wife back to the nineties to get her up the spout with him. Fucking sick, right?  _

 

_ His dad strangled his mum when he found out she was pregnant with another man’s child. That’s why she and the baby died.   _

 

_ His granddad lures Muggles to their home and boils them into a stew. It’s a family recipe, wonder if we ask him if he’ll share it with us.   _

 

_ His grandmum was a kept whore for the Minister--that’s why none of them went to prison. She’s famous for what she does on her knees.  _

 

_ Scorpius Malfoy likes to molest goats, that’s why he spends time at the Hogshead with old Aberforth Dumbledore. That or he’s letting Aberforth fuck him--Jordan Crowley said he say Ol’ Dumbledore passing him a bag of gold the other day. Can’t be what he earns working in that dump of a bar--he probably learned how to whore from his gran.  _

 

Albus’s head hurts when he tries to think of the rest. He’d never believed any of them and had not laughed when his mates or his brother laughed. Scorpius seemed to have taken it all in stride. Most usually he had a book open in his hand, reading alone at the end of his House table, away from his housemates. Albus never saw him interact with another person unless there was a partnered project, but even in those most professors were content to let Scorpius work alone. 

 

During puberty Albus remembers noticing Scorpius more; the way he shot up in height--towering over most others in school--his sharp, straight nose, the broadened set of his shoulders, and devil may care attitude he adopted. 

 

However, when he stepped from the Floo in Dominique’s shop that fateful summer, at Lily’s side, Albus knew he was doomed. There was a pull, intense and unforgiving when that mature Alpha scent washed over him. Crisp air rolling in from the sea, with undertones of clean leather, warming in the sun, and clove smoke-- _ Scorpius _ . 

 

Albus will never forget that perfume; it is ingrained in his soul. 

 

His mother once told him it is the pull of an Alpha to an Omega. After the birth, on a rare day, when they were alone and able to talk about the past. She’d tried to downplay the things he described, and yet Albus knew his draw to Scorpius was more than that, but he didn't disagree. He was too busy remembering how that exact moment felt.

_ Like magic.  _

When he looks at the photograph of Orion, Albus knows that he hasn’t forgotten. How could he? 

 

Again he traces the scar on his shoulder. 

 

*

 

_ Bond  _ writes itself in crimson smoke across the image of Dominique and Teddy. Dominique is straddling him, topless, with her back to the camera while Teddy runs heavily tattooed fingers up her spine--using them to smooth her hair away from her neck and her bondmark. His own mark is visible on his ring finger. A permanent ring of scar tissue that he will not be able to cover. It’s erotic and intimate. Albus runs fingertips over the moving image of them, and feels a slight bit of jealousy at the way Teddy clutches Dominique closer--putting transfigured, sharp teeth near her bond bite. 

 

*

 

The burst of coppery tang and salt flooding his tastebuds, that’s what Albus remembers most from when he bit into Scorpius’s wrist. The soft velvet feel of slick skin on his tongue, and he pulls himself off to the memory. 

 

He hates himself when he’s done. 

 

Come smeared and flaking across his stomach; he feels empty, unfulfilled. 

  
  


III.

_ Love is too confusing  _

_ And I am confusing all _

_ These men with you  _

  
  


Richard is a blond Alpha who boasts a strong jaw and broad shoulders. His hick American accent is annoying, but Albus doesn’t want his words--he’s more interested in Richard’s cock. The cock he invades Albus with a few hours after they meet--at a boring party that Aunt Fleur holds at the end of Haus Delacour’s showcase. He’s a reporter for some trash rag that thrives on celebrity gossip, but Albus doesn’t give a shit--he could sell this moment to the papers for all Albus cares. This encounter means nothing, being dragged through the mud means nothing; to Albus everything is empty. 

 

“Harder,” he demands, gripping the marble counter in the loo. In the mirror, he can see the red flush that spreads up Richard’s neck to his face and ears. Albus is both aroused and repulsed by the image Richard creates behind him. His bondmark burns, an annoying reminder that is a buzz of irritation beneath his skin, when another Alpha other than Scorpius has him. 

 

He closes his eyes to the image of Richard at his back, snapping into Albus like a wild beast--Richard’s blue eyes glazed with lust as he watches that place where they are so intimately connected. “You feel like you were made for my cock,” Richard tells him, and the words bring back memories of stolen moments--eyes shut to the present, Albus recalls Scorpius’s room. Done up in black and silver with furniture far too ostentatious for a young man of seventeen. 

 

Curious while Scorpius was in the loo, Albus started poking around--seeking the spank material Scorpius undoubtedly kept in his private haven. The pictures of his racier modelling photos Albus discovered stuffed between Scorpius’s mattress and box spring. Hastily he’d stuffed them back into their resting place when Scorpius’s steps drew closer. Pretending he’d not seen Scorpius’s secret, Albus tried hard not to feel ridiculously warm at the thought of what Scorpius did with his image when alone. 

“Do you have a camera,” Albus enquired while they were looking over summer homework. After Albus sucked Scorpius off--jerking himself to the delicious sounds Scorpius made.  

“Yeah,” Scorpius replied, reading another of his difficult potions texts while Albus copied his homework. He’d heard rumour Scorpius was likely to take the Head Boy badge in September, and as he read some of the essays Scorpius had written Albus knew why--he was far smarter than his appearance suggested. He had possessed an understated brilliance, and, to this day, Albus is intimidated by all that Scorpius was then and all that he has become. 

“Is it an instant one,” Albus had noticed Scorpius stiffen and tried not to bite his lip. He wanted Scorpius to break first back then. He’s still waiting for him to break now.   

“I have one,” Scorpius’s tone was neutral, but his eyes were full of fire when he asked, “Why?” 

Albus tried to stay confident when he leant over the low table in Scorpius’s private sitting room--cocking his head to the side to expose the naked length of his throat as he husked, “I want you to show me what you see when you fuck me.” 

“Fuck,” Scorpius swallowed, eyes blown dark with lust, and he had hastily nodded, “Yeah...I’d like that.” 

“Look at how I suck you in,” Albus had murmured as he watched the pictures Scorpius took loop through a couple of deep, slow thrusts. Scorpius, behind him, bucked into Albus--spurred on by Albus’s words. “You feel so good in me,” he’d whined, rotating his hips, causing Scorpius to groan. “Tell me how I feel,” he demanded, needy, wanting Scorpius’s approval. 

“You feel like mine,” Scorpius drew his tongue across Albus’s neck, sucking on the sweat that had gathered there. “Like your arse was made for my cock, for my knot.” Albus had tightened around him when he said that, because,  _ yes _ , he didn’t realise he had wanted such an intimate coupling until the word rolled off of Scorpius’s tongue. Scorpius’s knot, in him, tying them--pumping him full of Scorpius’s scent and seed. 

“Made for your cock,” he’d breathlessly agreed. “Want it always.” Scorpius’s hand in his hair was welcome. It felt like ownership. So Albus had told him, “Make me yours.” 

Now, in this too posh loo, Albus comes to the memories--not to the thick cock that throbs within him, pumping him full of seed that won’t take. His mark is itching to a point that is almost unbearable, but he grits his teeth hard and manages to act like he’s enjoyed the encounter. 

Though the coupling leaves a vile taste on his tongue.

*

“You’ll like him,” Rose promises. 

However, Albus doesn’t like this man--this Winston or William or What-The-Fuck-Ever. He’s a tall bloke, pale, with cheap rentboy blond hair and too many kitschy tattoos. He certainly seems Albus’s type, at first glance, but when he approaches Albus finds that this man is a cheap imitation of what he’s searching for. Every man is a cheap imitation of Scorpius. 

Winston or William is trying to hard to seem aloof. Yet, his eyes are too hungry, his glances too nervous, and Albus is bored before he’s even said three words. 

He wants cool grey eyes that follow him across a room, but manage to not be ravenous or possessive. He desires grins that are hard to read, and witty sarcasm that is so dry people have a hard time sussing out if the speaker is being serious or not. He yearns for the committed responsibility of a proper adult. One who is respectable and generous and kind despite his punk appearance. There exists a bloke that is the possessor of all that he covets, but Albus will never have him again.

“Do you want to fuck me,” Albus asks, interrupting whatever Winston or William is saying. He’s bored with this small talk. 

“What,” at least this bloke can manage a sincere reaction--he’s honestly surprised as he watches Albus shift closer. Pressing his own body against the warmth of the one beside him, Albus touches this man with obvious intent. 

“Do. You. Want. To. Fuck. Me,” he enunciates each word with a sharp tone, conveying that either Winston or William say  _ yes  _ or Albus is leaving him behind. 

*

Of course the shit--actually named Barron of all fucking things--takes Albus up on his offer. Following him home like a lost Crup. It’d be cute if Barron was someone else. 

Albus fucks him through the night but doesn’t come. He gets close a dozen times, but never quite reaches orgasm. It’s annoying. 

“You can leave,” Albus dismisses when Barron acts as if he’s settling in for the night. He doesn’t let on offs sleep in his bed--Albus rarely lets them follow him home, and is regretting that decision now. 

“You’re not nearly as wonderful as Rose said you’d be,” Barron frowns. He seems disappointed, but Albus cares little for his feelings. This could never be forever, Barron should’ve known that when Albus didn’t bother remembering his name when they were introduced. 

“Ha,” Albus lights a cigarette--it’s one of Barron’s, but tastes of Scorpius’s tongue. Crackling and filling the room with that clove scent Albus wishes to find in his pillow. “I’d be wonderful if you were the right bloke, now fuck off.” 

Barron goes, in a whoosh of green flame through Albus’s private Floo. He locks the grate after the unwanted guest’s departure, then returns to bed with a dejected flop. 

On the bedside cabinet, he rights Orion’s photo, smoking the cigarette as he watches his son loop through giving the photographer two fingers. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I,” Albus asks the silent image. 

*

James is the one who mentions the bags that look of permanent bruises beneath his eyes. “You look like shit,” his brother comments--his normally unfailing grin slipping away as a crease of worry appears between his thick eyebrows. 

“Kind of you to notice,” Albus’s dry response comes with a cloud of flavoured smoke. 

“And since when do you smoke,” James looks and sounds like Dad when he’s playing at worried parent. He’d be horrified if Albus told him that, and he’s tempted when James grabs his chin--turning his face to inspect his skin closer. His hazel eyes are searching, and Albus knows his brother is playful but not stupid. If he lets James gaze too closely all of his secrets are likely to come slipping through his cracks. 

“Since now,” Albus snarks. He notices that James appears as if he’s gearing up for a rant and snips, “Leave it.” Before his brother can start. Albus berates himself enough as is--he doesn’t need James coming along and adding to his guilt. 

“Lorcan ask you to be apart of his documentary?” James changes the subject, and Albus gladly clings to something that doesn’t concern him. 

“Yeah, but I turned him down. Lily’s already doing it, and I don’t like being asked about my private life,” he makes a point to glare while he lights another of the black filtered cigarettes that Scorpius always smoked. James rolls his eyes, but doesn’t reply to that particular jab.  

“Well, I’m doing it--he’s got quite a few people he’s lined up for the film, apparently. Teddy’s even joining,” James shrugs, grabbing his foaming pint. Albus cannot take him seriously when he sets the glass back down, after a deep drink, and on James’s top lip a thick, foamy mustache remains. He shakes his head, almost fond, when James wipes the mess away with his sleeve. 

“What’s it about?” Albus said ‘no’ before he’d heard any of the details for Lorcan’s project. Lorcan is as fanciful as his mum and dad--Albus isn’t as kind as his own parents and doesn’t feel like indulging the berk’s whims. 

“Being born rich and famous, of all things,” James laughs. Albus doesn’t find it as amusing. That’s an odd topic. Pretentious. And sounds as if it will cast all the people participating in a bad light. “Apparently, he’s having trouble finding himself and wants to see how other rich, famous kids get on in life while being wealthy and famous for nothing.” 

“He sounds like he’s only grown more pleasant with age,” Albus snorts. 

*

Dad’s the one who corners Albus next, when he’s at the family home in Godric's Hollow. “What is that,” he demands, eyes menacing as they fall on the large lovebite Albus’s recent rendezvous felt compelled to leave in his skin. He enjoys the biters--they help distract from the sting of his mark.  

“Hazards of rough sex,” he jokes, causing Dad to frown. “Lay off it, I’m fucking twenty-five I’m going to have lovebites once in awhile.” 

A concerned draw pulls down the corner of Dad’s thin mouth, and there’s something tragic in the pitch of his voice when he whispers, “Al, are you on drugs?” 

He wishes. Drowning his misery in those iridescent potions one can score in the dark corners of seedy clubs sounds like a dream compared to what’s actually wrong with him. He doesn’t tell Dad this, though, Albus shrugs as he whispers, “Maybe I am, but what’s it matter--s’not like I’m going to hurt any unplanned baby.” The words come out bitter, full of a longing he doesn’t want to hear in himself. Full of a pain he doesn’t want Dad to know exists. 

“Al-,” Albus doesn’t let Dad finish. He’s too busy wandering into the back garden for Basil’s third birthday. Dominique is radiant in her short black frock and red satin pumps. Teddy, standing beside her, is just as ridiculously dressed for a children’s party. With his holey denim trousers, faded Weird Sisters tee, and leather jacket with too many studs in the lapels and shoulders. Yet, as funny as their appearances are, they both beam with pride when Basil makes a birthday wish. Albus nearly chokes on his cigarette as Basil announces that he’s wished for a brother. 

“I want a little brother who is just like Orion,” he declares, and Teddy appears fond. Albus wants to die. “Why isn’t Orion here, Papa,” Basil asks when he’s exclaimed how much Orion would love this or Orion would be excited to see that. Each time it’s a knife in Albus’s already wounded heart.

“Scorpius is doing his bit for Lorcan’s documentary and Orion is with Aunt Cissy.” Then with a devious sort of grin, Teddy adds, “I bet he’d much prefer to eat Gran Gin’s chocolate cake than that prissy shit Aunt Cissy’s making him eat.” Narcissa, Albus remembers Scorpius saying, is the quintessence of elegance.  _ She’s also a horrible snob _ , Scorpius would tell him with a soft grin that revealed his partiality towards the grandmother Albus never met. 

“Will Gran Gin make me some cake to take to him,” Basil pleads, and Albus notices that his mother’s smile is brittle when she promises she would love to make some cake for his friend. 

_ This is so fucked up.  _

Albus excuses himself, lying through his perfect teeth when he claims he’s feeling off. He  _ is _ feeling off, but he knows why and it’s nothing a Pepper-Up can fix. 

The framed photos of his son mock him when he gets home. Albus feels a mixture of unsettling emotions when he realises that, slowly, the number of images have been increasing. 

 

IV.

_ And their eyes don’t look _ _  
_ _ Like yours _

 

Even Uncle George starts watching Albus with worry when he shows for family brunch on Sunday. Which is saying something, because Uncle George is hardly one to notice much of anything. Uncle Ron and Granddad assure them all that, once, George was full of laughter and smiles;  _ his blue eyes had a sparkle like no other _ . Albus assumes Uncle Fred shared that sparkle, when his went out so did Uncle George’s. 

“You look broken,” Uncle George states, setting his goblet of water on the table while staring at Albus with the most intense stare Albus has ever seen.

“How does a person look broken,” Albus tries for amusing, but Uncle George isn’t laughing. His expression is stoney causing Albus to choke on his own weak laugh.  

“Boy, I look into a mirror every morning--I know broken when I see it,” his voice is soft but full of meaning. 

Albus swallows, glancing down, and Aunt Angelina comes over. Settling her kind hand against Uncle George’s shoulder. “Now, now, what’re you whispering about over here?” There’s a hint of worry to her tone. Her actions make Albus think that perhaps he isn’t the only one afraid of spilling painful secrets. 

Uncle George acts as if he hasn’t heard her, but cocks his head in Aunt Angelina’s direction and mutters, “I see it there, too, every morning when I wake. Then every night when I lay down to sleep.” A rough sound that might be a chuckle leaves his freckled throat, “Brokenness is my speciality, Albus.” 

When he gets up from the table Aunt Angelina follows him, calling, “George,” while Albus sits, stunned as he watches them go. 

*

“What do you think he meant by that,” Albus asks Dominique. When they’re alone in his flat--her kid is with Teddy and Scorpius and Orion.  _ Off to a festival in Pilton _ , she’d confided when she slipped in through the Floo with a few bottles tucked beneath her arm. Now they’re sitting on Albus’s expensive silken sofa, drunk on wine, while he ignores his shit sketches that are scattered across his coffee table. 

“Uncle George is funny since the war,” Dominique giggles, patting him on the cheek with a warm, soft hand. “Don’t you know they all are--it’s what happens when you see that shit first hand.” 

“But he said I look broken,” the words have been haunting Albus. Along with that glimmer in Uncle George’s eyes. An expression that said he could see right into Albus--knew all his secrets--just remembering sends a shiver down his spine. 

“Well, luv, we’re all a bit broken, yeah?” Dominique leans closer, settling her head on Albus’s bony shoulder. “It’s the human experience to crack through various stages of life.” 

“You’re a joy, you know that,” Albus huffs, leaning forward to grab his cigarettes off the floor. 

“I’m also right--we all have cracks, Albus, it’s human.” She seems sober, and Albus feels too sober for what she tells him next. “Your problem is you’ve always run from permanence--you’re afraid to settle in anything because you think there will be something better.” Dominique pinches his cheek playfully, “How many times have you decided you wanted to be a painter, a sculptor, a dancer, a kept lover...shit, I can’t remember how many things you’ve chased.”  

“Is there anything wrong with wanting to do more with my life,” his enquiry more defensive than he wants his response to sound. 

Dominique’s eyes are maternal, “No one is saying that, Al. What I’m saying is you don’t stick to anything because nothing you do gives you joy. Besides working with me, you’ve always returned to Delacour, but the point, luv, is that you’re chasing happiness. Yet, you’re never finding it because all the new is a distraction.” She hugs him, “You run when it gets scary and I don’t know why, and I won’t ever tell you to stop. But I will tell you, Uncle George is right--you are a little broken.” 

“What should I do,” he wonders because she’s not wrong. He does chase the exuberance of new excitement until it wears off--then he’s gone, onto the next shiny thing he finds. 

“Search your feelings, Albus, find what makes you happy and put your all into it.” She cocks her head, “Didn’t you always want to be a painter?” 

“I’m a shit painter,” he gives her a withering glance. 

“But you’re a great designer, and isn’t that like painting?” It’s not the same, but he indulges Dominique.

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Does it make you happy,” she presses closer and he can smell the fruity scent of their wine on her breath. 

“Yes,” it does but doesn’t. 

“You don’t sound terribly convinced.” Dominique, as always, sees through him. 

“I’m bored with the sort of fashion I know.” He’s bored with everything he knows. 

“So, do something else,” Dominique makes change sound simple. 

Simple is scary to Albus. 

*

“Mr Potter, hello,” Orion’s voice is one that haunts Albus in sleep and it fills him with an ache of maternal longing when he hears it now. Turning he finds that Orion has grown in the past year that Albus hasn’t seen him. He’s seen the pictures, sure, but it’s different than seeing him in person. It hurts more this way. 

“Hello,” he replies, but Orion hardly notices when he bounds towards Lily to give her some sort of worksheet. “I had my dad help me write some of the notes.” Lily takes the parchment with a smile and her hazel eyes scan down the sheet, ginger eyebrows quirking near the end. 

“You think you can manage this,” she teases, and Orion smiles in a confident manner that is all Scorpius. 

“I’ve been practising with Dad, and I’m sure I can,” he’s fired up when he replies. Albus has to remind himself he can’t just rush over to hug him. Though he desperately wants to do just that. 

“Is this what you’ve decided for your winter recital piece?” Lily walks towards her desk, opening up a schedule book and fetching a quill while she waits for Orion’s reply. 

“Yeah, my dad should be off tour then, and he is looking forward to it,” Orion sounds giddy at the prospect. “He told Lysander he’ll put him in an early grave if he schedules anything without asking first.” 

Lily laughs; Albus is jealous that she knows more about his son and Scorpius than he does. It’s stupid for him to feel that way, Albus knows, but he can’t stop the blossom of unrest that stirs in him at his sister’s easy camaraderie with his son. “We’ll be sure that you’re in top form, then, and we will make your dad proud.” 

“Awesome,” the tardy bell chimes. Orion mutters something profane beneath his breath in French, but neither Lily nor Albus says anything about it. “Well, I’ve got to get to class, is it okay if I come by at lunch to practice?” 

“I’m taking lunch with Albus on the Alley today, but I’d love to tomorrow,” Lily is genuinely apologetic. Something she’s never been with James or Albus or any of their cousins.

“Oh, okay,” Orion seems disappointed; Albus hates to hear him sound so dejected. 

“Lils, we can lunch another day. I’m free at the weekend, and that will give us more than an hour to chat.” She appears grateful while Orion positively beams when he turns to Albus, expressing his thanks. Albus is dizzy with pride over the knowledge that he put that smile on that mouth and steps closer, patting Orion on the hair without thought. “You make your parents proud,” he whispers down at him, then swallows before he can say anything more. Something damaging to them both.

*

_ International Wizard  _ has its cover splashed with candid photos of Scorpius Malfoy escorting five different partners about. Three are blond, one has hair almost the shade of Albus’s, and the other is Lily. Albus nearly screams when he snatches it off of the newsstand. 

Honestly speaking, it’s a rather innocence shot. Captured on the steps of Magical Meadows, and there’s nothing remotely amorous about the way they stare at one another. Yet, Albus is seething with rage while jealousy consumes him. 

He flips to the pages where it talks about Scorpius’s potential partners and he sneers at them all, but at his sister, he nearly whimpers from the feeling of betrayal.  _ Photo was taken after school lets out at Magical Meadows. Orion Malfoy appears to be extremely captivated by his musical teacher, as does Scorpius Malfoy. Could beautiful music be in store for these two?  _ Albus will burn the world before he allows that to happen. 

*

Lunch with Lily is tense; she must notice because she keeps watching Albus with a frown. “God, you keep sucking those down,” she picks up his package of cigarettes. “Scorpius always has one of these in his mouth when he fetches Orion from school.” The comment is spoken with distaste, but Albus’s jealousy has him seeing shadows where there are none. 

He wants to hex her for putting their names in her mouth. 

“Does he,” is what he snips instead. 

“Albus,” Lily’s tone comes out cool. “Is there something you want to say to me?” 

“Why would I have anything to say,” he bites back. 

“Because you’re acting like a fucking cunt, and I’m over it.” Lily has never been one to be cowed, and she’s not about to begin now. 

“Are you fucking Scorpius Malfoy?” He practically explodes the question, much to the horror and interest of the other patrons on the patio. The tables around them grow suddenly still, but Albus doesn’t pay them much mind. His attention remains fixed on Lily. 

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but no, I’m not,” she throws her linen napkin onto the table while shoving out of her chair. “I’m leaving.” 

“Lils,” Albus pleads, immediately contrite, grabbing her by her slim wrist. He doesn’t want to fuck up another wonderful element of his life. Albus has done plenty of that already. “Please sit down, I’m sorry for being a shit.” 

She appears to be silently debating telling him to get fucked and march off, but she sits; settling with a cool expression on her face. “You get shitty again and I’m out of here.” 

“I’m really sorry,” he says again while she rolls her hazel eyes. 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Tell me why you’re being a shit and I might forgive you.” If only he could tell her the whole truth. 

Snuffing out his cigarette Albus rubs at his eyes, muttering, “I’m just struggling with my clothing line--I’ve pushed it back three seasons and my backers are getting impatient.” Which isn’t entirely untrue. He’s been postponing his fall-winter and spring-summer lines. Victoire rang him at the Mirror last week to remind him he’s received a hefty sum of money, as well as promotions, and has yet to produce a single thing. 

“You’ll be sued if you postpone it any longer,” she’d levelled with him when she called, and Albus is stirring in worry that he’ll have to talk to Mum and Dad about it. Mum will be angry if they’ve got to bail him out of another problem. Of the three Potter children he’s the one who is the least responsible financially--sad, really considering James has the mental capacity of a toddler at times. 

“Have you thought about doing children’s fashion?” Lily’s question shocks him out of his mindless worrying. 

“What,” he hadn’t thought about children’s fashion, but he finds that he loves the idea. It hits him as nothing has in over a year. 

Lily shrugs, sitting back she mentions, “Orion’s been lamenting how he’s never able to find anything  _ cool  _ enough to wear for his winter recital.” When Albus watches her in askance, Lily adds, “He really wants to impress his dad, and you’ve seen that cock up in all kinds of tabloids. You know how he dresses, not many options like that for kids out there.” 

_ That’s it. _

*

He’s got a pile of Scorpius’s modelling photos out, pictures he’s posed for with his band, a few he’s done for  _ Heat Week _ \--those are the ones Albus pulls himself off to. The ones that make him angry that Scorpius’s cock is there for all the world to see--hard with his talented fingers teasing up it as his pink tongue dances a seductive crawl across his lip. 

His eyes are the eyes Albus remembers from the bonfire. Eyes like a grey winter sky that sparkled with endless mystery; Scorpius has always been an enigma. Even now he remains one. Albus traces a finger over the familiar, yet changed, visage--sighing when the image of Scorpius turns from the camera, showing off his beautiful profile. It feels like he’s turning from Albus, which is foolish. 

_ Heat Week:  _ _  
_ _ Where’s your favourite place for a romp? _

_ Scorpius Malfoy:  _ _  
_ _ (Wearing a playful smile) The beach.  _

_ Heat Week: _ __  
_ You strike me as the sort to want to  _ _  
_ __ Have a quickie in a pub’s loo. 

_ Scorpius Malfoy:  _ __  
_ There’s that, too, but the beach is my  _ _  
_ __ Favourite. For sentimental reasons.

_ Heat Week:  _ __  
_ What would you say your biggest turn on is? _ _  
_ __ What can an Omega do to catch your eye?

_ Scorpius Malfoy: _ __  
_ I’ve always enjoyed aggressive partners. _ __  
_ Someone who doesn’t allow Alpha _ _  
_ __ Prowess to kerb their spirit. 

Albus snorts. He’d been a walking wreck around Scorpius. Fearful and naive and so many other things. But he faked confidence so well he’d fooled the young Malfoy. 

When he’d invited Scorpius to the bonfire, he didn’t think he’d accept. He’d been horribly stiff at The Burrow, and Albus doubted he’d be much better in a group of the peers he obviously disliked. 

Albus was right, Scorpius had been terribly uncomfortable and unamused by the childish antics of Albus’s and James’s friends. After an hour, or so, when everyone was sufficiently pissed Scorpius slipped off--down to the shore--where he created a glowing ball of light. Albus bored with those around him, and intrigued, decided to go see what he was doing. 

Once he was near he could see Scorpius reading what appeared to be a book on potions. Which Albus recalls thinking was odd since Scorpius had the best potions grade in their Year, and when Albus got a look at some of what was written there he’d seen why Scorpius had the best grade in their Year. Albus hadn’t a clue what was happening in those pages, but Scorpius had appeared bored with what was written there as he flipped through page after page and sighed. 

They’d had an exchange, Scorpius, Albus recalls, tried to not offend Albus by remaining neutral about calling Albus’s friends dull. Albus did it for him and then offered him a hit off his spliff. Scorpius’s eyes had gone half lidded as he leant in, taking a draw from the tightly wound joint without removing it from Albus’s fingers. His lips were warm and soft where they touched Albus’s skin, and it took everything in Albus not to shiver or gasp. He remembers he felt electric beneath Scorpius’s touch. 

Silence descended upon them, and after long minutes Albus finally swallowed down his nerves and asked if Scorpius wanted to go somewhere with him. 

“Yeah,” Scorpius replied and took Albus’s offered hand--allowing Albus to help him to his feet.

The sea was cool that night, even in late summer, and Albus shivered as a breeze carried over the tops of the water--hitting them with cold, damp air. A knit jumper was around him in an instant, warm and too large. Scorpius hadn’t called attention to the act, so neither did Albus, and they continued along the beach in companionable silence. 

“Do you really always run off to get your cock sucked,” until Albus broke the stillness with an asinine question. One that he remembered bothering him from a conversation he’d overheard Teddy and Scorpius having in Nikki’s shop. A conversation that had been revealing; whispers that made him feel less worldly than Scorpius and Teddy. He had been thankful for the darkness around them to keep Scorpius’s eyes from seeing how deep he’d blushed after he asked that question. 

The laugh that tumbled out of Scorpius’s long, lean throat was bright and Albus felt that squirm of want in his stomach again when the moonlight caught on the beautiful cut of Scorpius’s teeth. When he faced Albus, his smile was playful, a little less genuine--the same smirk Albus had seen for the last few weeks around Dominique’s place, and he sorely missed the rare grin Scorpius had those seconds before. “Are you offering, Potter?” 

Another tremble ran through him, but it had nothing to do with the chill of the night. Albus recalls that it had been a shiver of anticipation.

“Yes?”

That was how they wound up in a little alcove where the sand had been blanketed in night. Scorpius kept asking if Albus was sure, even as he worked Albus open. He remembers he was not sure, to be honest, he was fucking frightened then, but Scorpius was so good at touching him and he wanted to be good at sex for him. Albus wanted Scorpius to be full of Albus--wanted to take up all corners of his mind--and desired to be the one Scorpius compared all others against. He had wanted to ruin him, but instead told Scorpius, “Come ruin me for all other Alphas.” 

“Fuck,” Scorpius had husked as he slipped into Albus’s pliant body. It burned, the stretch of intrusion, but Albus took it without protest--allowing Scorpius to brand him first. 

He grins down at the article in his lap, now--perhaps he had seemed confident and experienced to a young Scorpius. It makes Albus puzzle over the fact that maybe Scorpius wasn’t as seasoned as Albus had believed back then. He recalls being almost hurt that Scorpius had been so blas é about their first encounter. 

Scorpius hadn’t tried to stop Albus when he left him on the beach, after their shag. And Albus hadn’t wanted to be that clich é \--the Omega that pants after an Alpha like a bitch in heat, but he did become desperate after a few hours away from Scorpius. So he’d gone to the apothecary that Mr Malfoy owned then and still owns now. The one Albus often passes when he’s feeling nostalgic.  

Scorpius was behind the counter when Albus strolled in, writing things down in a black leather-bound ledger. But his eyes snapped up when Albus entered, and he wondered--then and even now--with an intense hope that his scent was what alerted Scorpius to his presence, not the bell over the door. 

He had fumbled for an excuse for why he was there. “Pepper-Up,” he spoke a little too loudly while Scorpius watched him with a blank face when he approached the till, with the bottle of potion he hadn’t needed. Albus still feels foolish when he recalls how he’d behaved then--he’d tried so hard to think of some way to strike up a conversation, but Scorpius had already rung up his purchases and stood staring at him--waiting for Albus to hand over his tender. 

He passed Scorpius two silver coins, then left the shop with a dejected sigh. Albus can still remember the feeling of Scorpius’s skin that lingered after that touch. 

The next day he had been determined to not seem like an idiot and pushed into the shop with a bounce in his step. A bounce that went right the fuck out of him when he saw Scorpius helping a comely blond Omega who was asking about side effects for some balm. Scorpius had been tactile, taking the man’s arm and smoothing a bit of cream over the back of his hand while he kept speaking in that low, naturally seductive tone--explaining how the balm worked. Albus remembers being jealous over the clear intrigue the older Omega man had for Scorpius, and he had frowned when the man bit his bottom lip, watching Scorpius with appreciation. Scorpius hadn’t  seemed receptive when he led the Omega man over to the till to ring up his items. “That’ll be four sickles and three knuts,” Scorpius informed, flipping through another book while he waited for the man to pay. 

Disappointment was obvious when the man passed Albus on his way out and he had wondered if he’d have more luck when Scorpius continued reading his book. Ignoring Albus entirely. Until fifteen minutes passed in which Albus hadn’t moved, only then did Scorpius glance up and ask if there was anything Albus needed help finding. He sounded extremely bored, and the memory still fills Albus with disappointment.  

“Scar balm,” is what Albus had blurted, like a complete moron, then hastily added, “I thought I’d pick some up for my dad.” Scorpius pointed at a shelf to the right, and never called Albus on his ridiculousness. Harry Potter didn’t need a scar balm, everyone would shit if his dad had tried to rid his face of his famous scar.  

“Up there, if you can’t reach I’ll grab it down for you. No magic in the shop.” 

“Okay,” Albus sighed, another wave of disappointment washed over him, when Scorpius rang him up without asking what he was doing there. 

The next day he’d been determined, and strolled in while half-shouting, “Malfoy.” Of course, Scorpius had been in the back, marking up bottles or something, so the Malfoy who saw him first was Mr Malfoy and his eyebrows dipped down with a frown that still frightens Albus. 

“Can I help you, Mr Potter,” Mr Malfoy’s tone was terrifying and Albus froze, unsure of how he was supposed to handle that situation. So he’d grabbed the first potion to his left and stumbled around his tongue when he said. 

“I needed a refill,” he’d handed the bottle to Mr Malfoy with a shaky hand. The frown turned to surprise, and a bit of horror when Mr Malfoy glanced at the label. He cleared his throat in a painfully awkward way, and it had reminded Albus of the noise own father would make before he said something that would make them both uncomfortable. 

He had looked horribly uncomfortable when he told Albus, “If not taken properly, especially during heat, it is essentially ineffective.” It had been Albus’s turn to frown, and then he saw what he’d handed Scorpius’s father and blushed furiously.  

“Oh, yes, I know,” he swallowed, lying as well as he could--because he’d never taken a contraceptive in his life at that point. He still hasn’t ever had one, what’s the point when you can’t get up the spout unless it’s your bonded’s seed? Albus shakes his head, laughing when he recalls Mr Malfoy giving him a long-suffering sigh before he took Albus’s payment and announced that he would be taking an early lunch. He had muttered something about Albus’s father, but he didn’t catch it when Scorpius came out of the storeroom and finally demanded to know what Albus was playing at.

Scorpius had been frowning at him; he was so fucking beautiful that the words just slipped out of Albus’s mouth, “I like you.” Then he grew bold and pressed a soft kiss to Scorpius’s slack lips. His contraceptive was forgotten when Scorpius dragged him into the back, after locking the shop door, to pull him off while he devoured Albus’s mouth. 

He touches that mouth, now, in black and grey and sighs. It had been so easy then, fucking Scorpius had been easy. Loving him had been easy. Devoting himself to Scorpius for forever--that had not been easy. It’s still not. Albus thinks of all the times he’s wanted to ring or pop round at Scorpius’s door. He constantly wars between wanting to run to Scorpius and wanting to run far the fuck away from him. They are complicated and contrary; his emotions. 

Becoming more so when his dad steps in from his Floo. 

“Al,” Dad whispers. Perplexed, his brows dip down while green eyes glance about the scattered magazines. 

*

Mum and Dad frown at him, their eyes full of varying degrees of pity and judgement--Albus fidgets beneath their stares, feeling like he’s seventeen again. 

“I don’t understand,” Dad begins after the silence has dragged on too long. His hands are in the air, thrown up in surrender, as if he’s giving up the last of his sanity. “I thought you didn’t love him,” his tone is horribly confused, and Dad looks to Mum with pleading eyes. As if she can explain this horribly fucked up life to him. As if she has all the answers. 

Mum shrugs, looking just as unsure as Dad seems, and says, “He’s bonded, I don’t have the slightest idea how that would feel.” She doesn’t, Albus knows, even if he tried to put his feelings into words none of them would understand. Maybe Dominique and then it is different, different because she didn’t run from her bond. Then she furrows her brow at Albus and asks, “What is it you want, Albus?” 

_ Everything. _

Which is the easiest and hardest answer to produce. So he shrugs in lieu of forming a response. His lack of an answer has his parents sighing in that manner that makes his gut churn with guilt. Mum frowns at something in the direction of his bedroom door, and it’s too late for Albus to hide his greatest humiliation when she strides into his room. A determined bounce in her quick step. 

“Albus,” she breathes while Dad follows her--concern writ in the age lines around his mouth and eyes. 

“How long,” Dad enquires, voice tight as he grabs a frame off of the bedside cabinet. It’s Albus’s favourite; the one with Orion sticking two fingers up at Vivienne’s wedding. “How long have you known him?” It pains Albus to admit that his father understands him the best. “Something had to trigger this desire,” he hisses, invading Albus’s space--eyes wild with fury as he grips Albus by the shoulders. “When did you meet him, Al?” 

“Year and a half ago,” Albus admits, his voice is softer than a whisper but his dad catches the sound. “Lily is his music teacher.” 

“Jesus,” Mum mutters, managing to look disappointed and devastated at once. 

“You’re going to have to tell me everything you’ve ever said to him,” Dad sighs, letting go of Albus before taking a seat--he gestures for Albus to also sit. Dad’s looking older than his age in that moment. His gaze imploring when it settles over Albus. “You’re going to have to stay away from Magical Meadows, and we’re going to have to be on the offensive. On the off chance Draco catches wind of this, gets a bug up his arse, and comes for you.” 

 

Albus doesn’t want to avoid the school but remains silent. However, his mum and his dad can hear the defiance in his silence. Mum is the one who sits beside him, taking his hand into hers as she whispers, “You knew you were breaking the agreement the moment you saw that child.” She brushes his hair back from his face, “That boy could get you into a lot of trouble.” 

 

“His name is Orion,” Albus hisses, hurt that his mother refers to Orion as  _ that boy _ . 

 

Mum’s eyes are tragic when she tells him, “I never wanted to know his name.” Then she swallows, “It hurts too much to think of him as a real person.” Albus knows exactly what she means. 

 

“I told you-,” Dad starts only to be cut off by an angry hiss from Mum. 

 

“It’s not the time, Harry,” she seethes. The argument is an old and bitter one. 

 

“When is the time, Gin,” Dad counters, unusually cold. “You made me bite my damn tongue the entire time Albus had that child in his womb. And you made me bite my tongue when I said signing him over to Malfoy was a fucking mistake. I will  _ not _ bite my tongue now.” He’s settled a furious expression over her, “He should’ve kept his baby.” 

 

For the first time in nearly nine years, Albus cries over the baby that wasn’t his. The one he hadn’t wanted. Or so he thought until those green eyes fell over him in the doorway of the music room. 

 

*

Albus lies in bed, listening to his mum and his dad talking in his livingroom. Their words muffled through the walls. Albus knows they are having a conversation, but it is distant--like voices filtering through deep water. It reminds him of those dark days when he’d been seventeen and terrified. Pregnant with a child, bonded while still a child in his own right. 

He closes his eyes. Remembers. 

The imprint of teeth was a fresh wound, red and deep with dark purple bruising around where each tooth sunk into meat. Branding Albus owned. 

He had traced the indents of Scorpius, forever in his skin, and hissed at the sting. His discomfort roused Scorpius, who most likely felt him through the newness of their bond. In Scorpius, Albus had sensed worry and affection. 

Bile rose into Albus’s throat when a hand reached for him. There, in Scorpius’s pale wrist, he saw the impression of his own teeth. Blood was drying around it, revolting dark bruising like a bracelet that fanned out from around the wound. “Oh God,” he’d whispered at the sight. Horrified by what he’d done. “No,” he half shouted when Scorpius had moved to touch him. Wanting to offer comfort, but Albus desired none of it. “No,” he repeated and tried not to sob when he saw as well as felt the hurt that rippled through Scorpius. “I can't do this.” Scorpius’s hand hung there, and his eyes grew tight. Albus had cried, hiccoughing out more damning words, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry--I don't want a bond.” 

Some part of Albus will always resent the fact that Scorpius continued on so easily. That he still seems to be doing fine, if all the articles Albus reads are any indication. 

As if they hadn’t been fucking for a couple months, he’d ignored Albus when they returned to school; for Scorpius, nothing changed. He had covered Albus’s bite beneath a thick leather cuff, the replacement for the thin metal band of his watch, while Albus kept his own bond-bite hidden beneath his shirt. 

They never talked about how nothing could be the same as before. They did what all young fools do; ignore the problem, hoping fruitlessly that it would go away. 

Only, their problem grew bigger. 

“When did this happen,” Mum had demanded when she saw Albus in Madam Pomfrey's medical wing. He’d had his head in a pan, sicking up all of his evening’s treacle. Tears and snot streamed down his face as he sobbed--crying because his parents were shouting, crying because the headmistress was looking at him with pity, crying because everything was bollocks. 

“Summer,” he finally admitted, when Dad gently cradled him and asked Albus to unburden his soul. “Scorpius is the father.” 

They’d taken Albus to Land’s End, to hide him away and keep him from the nosiness of their family. Albus hadn’t wanted anyone to know. He hadn’t wanted any of it. Mum and Dad had spent days trying to calm him down, then longer still making him realise this situation wasn’t going away. Albus had baulked at the idea of taking natural abortifacients. It was technically illegal for Wizards to have abortions during that time. Because of their lower population and some other bullshit that Alphas cited as a reason for such archaic laws. Fortunately, that’s changed in recent years, thanks to Aunt Hermione and Roxanne, as well as many others. However, back then, Albus had been too afraid. Even with his dad’s assurance that he would not go to prison. Albus never admitted it--most likely never will--but he had feared killing Scorpius’s unborn child would sever their connection forever. It was another of his selfish whims; keeping, yet not keeping Orion. Another regret.     

“We can’t take him to a clinic,” Dad had told Mum with a weary sigh while he leant his head back against the sofa. They were talking in hushed tones, but Albus could hear them clearly from his perch at the bottom of the stairs. “Abortion is only for women in Muggle society. Their eyes would bug out of their head if we had to explain magical Alpha and Omega sexual dynamics to them.” Then he had huffed, “Not to mention the issue of the magical bond.” 

Mum hummed, thoughtfully as she watched the clock tick away steadily in the corner. “The bond worries me more than the child.” 

“Me too,” Dad admitted. 

Albus hadn’t hung around to hear what more was said. He’d felt like a big enough cock up and decided to take himself to bed. Growing life was exhausting he’d discovered. Even more taxing when the weight of the world rested upon one’s shoulders.

“It’s  _ your _ baby,” Dad kept telling him. Even while Mum would say, “It is  _ your _ choice.” 

His head hurt when they finally got Mr Malfoy and Scorpius into a room--after two months of tireless waiting for Winter Hols to come. That had been one of the longest waits of Albus’s life. 

Scorpius appeared wretched when he came in through the door, and something shattered in his eyes when he beheld Albus’s pregnant form. The expression on Scorpius’s face caused him to scream and cry and plead with his own father. He couldn’t meet Scorpius like this--another clich é, another disappointment to himself. 

He’d been angry at Scorpius, then, but knows now he was angrier still with himself. 

“I never asked for this,” he spat at his father. Neither had Scorpius, but Albus had not wanted to admit that then. 

Then at Scorpius, “I don’t want it.” He was full of resentment. There Scorpius stood, unaffected by Albus’s bite, by the child growing in his womb, and there Albus was ruined by his bond and the seed that took root. His fingers tangled themselves into Scorpius’s black jumper, Albus can recall that it was soft and warm--inviting. Filling him with want along with more disgust for himself. “I don’t want any of this,” he’d cried. “I had plans,” it left his throat as a shrill scream. One he wanted to take back, but couldn’t when he saw the fractured expression that flitted across Scorpius’s usually impassive face. Albus cut Scorpius, deep, and wanted to undo all that, but he hadn’t known how. He just stared up at Scorpius with wet eyes, breaking again when Scorpius’s own wrecked whisper rippled through the room. 

“I’ll take it,” Scorpius had promised, his tone was painfully gentle--it hit Albus harder than any curse ever could. “I’ll take it, and I’ll never ask anything of you.” He brushed a final caress over Albus’s cheek while he wore a heartbreaking smile. “Go live your dreams, Alb.”

With that the deal had been done. Scorpius became elusive, unable to be reached by Albus’s hand or words. They became strangers in that moment, and it was worse than when Albus rejected Scorpius the first time. 

Scorpius had allowed Draco to dictate the terms of their arrangement while Albus pretended to nap on the sofa. 

“He wants nothing to do with the child, Potter,” Draco had said with a tone that left little room for argument. “So your son will have nothing to do with this child. His name will appear on no legal documents besides these which only we will see.” 

“What if he changes his mind,” Mum enquired while Dad sat in heavy silence. Albus heard the fury in that quiet.  

“He has until I leave this hell with my grandchild to make that decision,” Mr Malfoy acquiesced. “If he decides he wants joint custody of the child, then, at that time, we will come together again and make the necessary changes.” 

“Fine,” Dad had agreed, and Albus can still recall the hope he had in his voice--like he knew Albus would do the  _ right  _ thing. He’s still not sure what the right thing could have been.  

“However, if I walk out that door and he’s signed away his rights then I expect him to stay the fuck away.” Mr Malfoy had sounded dangerous, like the villains Uncle Ron always warned them about as children. 

“Fine,” Dad bit out, but that fine had cpme out less sure than the first. 

“Albus,” Mum comes into his room now, in his present hell, pulling his blank stare away from the crown moulding in his ceiling. Taking him out of those memories he doesn’t need to torture himself with, but does regardless. 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t want to talk to her, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. However, he responds--if only to keep her from coming into the room and placing a hand on his head. 

“Your father and I were wondering if you wanted to go to dinner,” it’s an olive branch, Albus knows. 

“I’m not hungry,” he replies, yet she doesn’t leave. 

Her eyes are all pity as she whispers, “Darling, you have to eat.” 

_ Do I _ ? He wonders.

V.

_ And their hands don’t feel _ _  
_ _ Like yours  _

 

The winter recital is packed full of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Albus slips in near the end--standing at the back so as not to draw attention to himself. Orion is last to perform. He requested it, Lily confided to Albus one night, and Lily has a soft spot for him. He's her favourite student even if she never says so; Albus hears the love in her voice when Lily speaks of him. 

Orion's as punk rock as he can manage. Sporting black leather boots and dark trousers, along with a black button-up shirt. He's a tie on; Albus bets that was Draco’s doing. Scorpius has always raged against formal wear. Orion waves, wearing a cheeky smile, and Teddy whoops in a show of obnoxiousness. The sound makes Orion grin wider as he sits at his stool--taking up his long, polished bow and beautifully maintained cello. 

The tune starts slow, a mournful draw that washes over Albus like a memory. A caress that leaves him breathless and aching with loss. A sound that gains traction--almost angry in its passion. His heart races with every draw across the strings. He can feel Scorpius, as well as the creation of their son in the notes. A lump of emotion builds in his throat along with the crescendo. 

Orion's deft hands drag the bow back from the first climax into a slow, languorous set of notes. Ones that are bittersweet with memories Albus doesn't know. In them he's sure Scorpius envisioned Orion speaking, walking, doing things Albus will never experience. Things he was not present for, moments he cannot recapture, and it hurts. Resentment merges into the tune, but it rolls away like a wave. What comes rushing over the audience after that is a tidal wave of fulfilment and love unlike anything Albus has ever heard before. This is yet another piece of the opus to Orion. 

He catches sight of Scorpius’s eyes, glistening with pride, as they stare up at Orion and Albus knows Scorpius loves their child more than anything. He can hear it in the music and he can see it on Scorpius’s face. He loves Orion despite Albus’s betrayal--had their positions been reversed Albus is not sure he could have been so strong. 

Albus has to leave before the end, else he will ruin the song with his sobbing. 

*

Even with a suppressant his heat is unbearable. The revolting potion takes away most of the need, and numbs him to the aches of not being fucked by his bonded--yet, still, Albus wants.  He craves Scorpius the way the devil craves sin. 

Timothy is a hired Alpha; he slips through the Floo when Albus finally caves to the need for touch. 

Albus doesn’t face him. Trying as best as he can to pretend this is  _ his _ Alpha, that this knot will ease his body’s craving for Scorpius--but it doesn’t, _ can’t _ , all he feels is the throb in his shoulder. The pain is mocking, reminding Albus that this is  _ not _ his Alpha. Punishing him for feeling another’s cock. 

“Scorpius,” is a silent scream that never rolls off his tongue. What comes from his throat is, “Harder, make me bleed.” He wants his body to break; the same as his heart. 

*

Lily comes in when he’s sitting at his drawing table, in nothing but an oversized shirt--still wearing the bites of a nameless man. She doesn’t mention the marks, her fingers ghost one--in silent question, but Albus offers no excuse. Lily, the darling, does not pry. 

“What’s this,” she enquires instead, picking up one of the sketches he has scattered about him. 

“My fall collection,” he replies, disinterest in his tone as he puts yellow in the faceless child model’s hair. 

“This reminds me of Orion,” Lily confesses, a teasing smile on her face. “Seems you like him.” 

“He’s interesting,” Albus remains neutral. He is not allowed to tell her that he loves that child; that he and the boy’s father fill every waking moment of Albus’s days. He lost that right, long ago, and his tongue is scarred from how often he bites his words quiet.  

“He reminds me of you,” Lily murmurs, wrapping her arms around Albus’s bony shoulders. “He’s a dreamer, and full of laughter.” Albus doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s not full of mirth, nor love, nor anything remotely pleasant. 

He’s full of empty, bitter, and regret. 

“Sounds more like James,” Albus tries for teasing. 

Lily doesn’t say anything in response, she reaches into her satchel and pulls out a piece of parchment. It’s got fashion like lines with watercolour shading--a little crude and childish, but not awful. “What’s this?” He takes the slip of parchment from her hand.

“It’s from your biggest fan,” she grins. Albus has to swallow when he sees the neat signature of Orion Malfoy near the bottom. Lily reads his silence as mortification, teasing Albus with a songlike trill, “I think he’s a crush.” Albus wonders how Scorpius feels about that. 

*

“Baz will look darling in these,” Dominique gushes while she touches some of the clothes that the staff have produced for Albus’s debut show. He’s glad she likes them; he’d been worried they were a little too edgy for children. What’s Albus know? He’s nothing of a parent. 

“Will he walk without having a fit,” Albus wonders with a doubtful tone. Baz is a shit at the best of times. 

Dominique smacks him in the arm, annoyed, “He’ll be wonderful, promise.” Teddy looks as unsure as Albus feels but wisely remains silent. He seems uncomfortable in the sea of fabrics and sewing machines. Until one of the tiny leather jackets catches his eye. 

“This is the fucking tits,” Teddy declares, in a carrying brash tone. “Baz definitely needs one of these.” Then after a beat, he adds, “Orion will for sure want one as well.” Chuckling to himself, Teddy mutters, “Wonder how the overbearing dragon of Wiltshire will feel about that.” Albus has a feeling that Draco will burn any item of clothing he finds, in his grandson’s wardrobe, with Albus’s name on it. 

A thoughtful expression settles over Dominique’s soft face and her blue eyes are bright with excitement when she claps her hands together. “Orion needs to model these clothes.” 

Albus tries not to express how much this suggestion pleases and terrifies him. 

*

Draco Malfoy showing up at his flat, some week and a half after Teddy and Dominique had viewed his unveiled collection, is not something Albus is expecting. Surprise shows on his face when his mouth drops open. 

“Do shut your mouth, boy, you will catch doxies,” Draco has a tone that’s so similar to Scorpius’s; the sound of it stirs the constant longing in Albus. “And invite me inside,” Draco commands. Albus has half a mind to tell him to fuck off, but his body betrays him when he steps aside to allow Draco entry. A critical eye roams his home; Albus feels exposed and uncomfortable. “You’ve certainly got better tastes than I expected...considering who your parents are,” Draco sounds disappointed that Albus isn’t some Weasley of old, living in squalor and surviving on cabbage soup. 

“Is there something you need,” Albus finally enquires when Draco makes himself comfortable on Albus’s designer sofa. After a nod of appreciation for the piece of furniture. 

“Tea would be lovely. That’s what civilised persons serve their guests,” Draco is mocking him, causing Albus to flush in humiliation. No comeback is forthcoming; so he marches, defeated, into his kitchen to put the kettle on. 

As he waits for the tea to steep, he chews his lips--wondering why Draco has come now. Albus worries that Draco  _ knows _ , and he wants to run, hide, take some sort of shelter from the rage that he’s certain is coming. 

He pulls his most elegant tea service from the cupboards--the pieces require a quick cleaning with his wand--and Albus arranges the china neatly on his best tray before he carries the refreshments out to Draco. 

His  _ guest  _ is no longer sitting on the sofa. Instead, he’s in the small study that’s open, peering down at Albus’s sketches. Sketches Draco can tell are designed for the son Albus doesn’t know. 

“Tea,” his voice cracks, and grey eyes slide over him. Mr Malfoy’s face is similar to a cold, marble statue--giving nothing away while remaining beautiful and terrifying. 

“You’ve a talent,” Draco tells him with a quiet voice, but in the stillness of the flat it is loud to Albus. A sound that doesn’t belong. Long, white fingers lift one of the drawings, and Draco peers at it closer. His mouth twitches, but beyond that there isn’t a sign of emotion. “I take it you’ve seen my grandson.” There is no question. 

Dad will kill him, surely, but even still Albus confesses, “Yes.” He closes his eyes as he breathes out his secret; Albus feels lighter now that more people share his truth. 

Draco’s chuckle holds no mirth, and even less kindness, “You realise that is a breach of contract.” 

“Yes,” Albus whispers, voice shaking. 

Draco approaches; the expensive soles of his custom loafers clicking against Albus’s hardwood floors are the sound of a death march. His hand is cold, even if his skin feels familiar--like his son’s, and Draco’s words are raw fury when he hisses, “You will not do it again.” 

Albus doesn’t think he can promise that, and when he remains silent Draco’s blunt nails dig into the line of his jaw. “You. Will. Not. Do. It. Again,” he repeats, punctuating every word with a hiss and a dig of his fingers. Albus swallows, terrified. Draco’s smile is Scorpius’s but cruel. “My grandson will not model your rags, nor will he see you in his school--you will become a memory, as you should never have been,” Draco’s voice is a caress of quietus as it whispers against Albus’s ear. 

“I just,” Albus swallows, tears of sorrow gathering in his eyes. “I just wish to exist in his world, only a little.” It’s a lie. Albus wants much more than a little, but will settle for anything. Will be grateful to  _ not _ be  _ nothing.  _

“You should have thought of that before I left you in your birthing bed at Land’s End,” Draco reminds with a steely gaze and attitude. He releases Albus’s face with a snarl and rubs his fingers together as if it will eliminate Albus’s skin from them. Like he’s trash Draco doesn’t wish to have linger longer than necessary. 

The tea is ignored when Draco leaves him, the crack of his Disapparation ringing in Albus’s ears long after he’s gone. 

*

Albus sits, staring at the sketches that he made, for a child he will never be permitted to dress, and he remembers the birth. 

A nightmare as the memories consume him. 

He’d gone into labours after he woke, May Second. Victoire’s birthday. The Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. The day so many died. That was the day Scorpius’s son came from Albus’s womb. He’d been alone--horrified--as he crawled towards the Floo. Mum and Dad could not come. It would expose the secret, and Albus had worked himself into a panic on the floor. He remembers thinking he was going to die. There, in Land’s End, alone, without Scorpius or his parents. 

He hadn’t. 

Draco had swept through the Floo, before the Healer, and he’d gathered Albus into his strong arms. Albus whined at Mr Malfoy’s scent--it calmed him when he detected the hints of Scorpius he found there. Draco had pretended not to notice when Albus leant into his neck to smell him deeper.

Albus was seventeen and scared shitless. He cried through the entire fourteen-hour ordeal and had no clue why he’d been crying. He just felt broken. Horribly ashamed. Mr Malfoy, in a show of kindness Albus had never expected, allowed him to grip his hand while Albus screamed. He felt wrong as the child moved through him. Tearing out of him before it left him empty. A husk of his former self; Albus’s tears had stopped while the baby’s began. Even though he hadn’t wanted to admit it then, Albus knew he could never return to the person he used to be. Try as he might that Albus died with the birth of Scorpius’s son.  

Mr Malfoy was the first to hold Orion because Albus had refused when the Healer drew the baby from his body. “Don’t tell me,” Albus begged her when she’d opened her mouth. The words halted on her tongue. “I don’t want to know.” She hadn’t mentioned a sex, and Mr Malfoy was good enough to remain silent on the topic.  

His grey eyes sparkled when they fell over the small, wriggling bundle, and he’d sung a lullaby in quiet French--one Albus remembered Aunt Fleur singing to them as children. 

“Take it,” Albus croaked to Mr Malfoy when Mum and Dad had finally arrived; sometime after eleven--when the sky was as black as the night’s sea. Hours after the Healer had announced the child perfect. Dad Obliviated her once he had thanked her and paid her for her time. 

Draco produced the documents Albus had already signed, flipping the large agreement to a final page. With the deadest tone Albus ever heard, he’d commanded, “Then sign here, boy.” Albus did before he’d leant into his mother, sobbing all over her soft chest. 

Later, Dad tried to get him to change his mind. 

“We can fight it, Al,” Dad would say, clinging to Albus’s clammy hand. “We can get that kid back. I killed Voldemort; I’ll be damned if I can’t get my first grandchild back from Malfoy.” He had sounded so desperate. 

“It’s not your first,” Albus reminded him with a lifeless voice that rang foreign in his ears. “It was never meant to be mine.” 

“Al-,” he cut his dad off. 

“I’m done talking about it. I just want to forget this ever happened.” Easier said than done, he discovered, when his scar burned and itched all through the night--desperate for the touch of his Alpha. Then he would wake; plagued with phantom baby wails. Echoing down empty corridors, making his tits ache with the need to feed a child that would never be there to for Albus to nurse. It was a chasm, and he’d find that nothing would ever fill the void left in his child’s wake. 

He’s still aching. 

 

_ And their voices don’t sound _ _  
_ _ Like yours _

 

He’d forgot all about Lorcan’s Live Documentary until James comes crashing into his flat, drunk and beaming. “What’re you doing here,” he demands as he throws an arm around Albus’s shoulder. 

“Working,” Albus frowns, turning his attentions away from the fabric swatches he’s looking at for the spring-summer collections. Even though he keeps wondering what’s the point in caring about fashion. “What do you need?” James stinks of cheap piss and greasy chips; Albus feels a headache coming. 

“Everyone’s at The Burrow, we’re watching the film Lorcan put together about us poor sods who were born with silver spoons in our mouths.” James is mocking, as is usual, and Albus smiles. James tends to be infectious, even when utterly annoying. 

“You’re here to fetch me then?” He doesn’t want to go, not really, but James has that pleading expression on his face. Albus caves. He can’t say  _ no _ because James will look like a kicked Crup if he does. 

*

Dad has set up a large Live Screen and not all of the family is there, but there are enough that Albus can sit without being bothered by everyone present. He's a headache and doesn't really care to be here. However, James is beaming. Despite the fact James is a giant jackass, at times, his brother is the one human who can always make him grin. Always manages to pull Albus out of his morose moods. That’s the magic of James Sirius Potter.  

Though he hates James a small bit when the Live starts, and there's a bunch of blokes on a private beach--Scorpius is the most noticeable one to Albus. His golden crown illuminated in the sun while Teddy, beside him, is grinning like a fool as he slings a heavily tattooed arm around Scorpius's shoulders. 

Lorcan’s voice is as monotone as Albus remembers when it starts narrating the film, “When I turn twenty-two I'm going to inherit a fortune, and I don't know how I should deal with this burden.” The shot pans across all the blokes gathered on the beach--Lorcan, his twin Lysander, Teddy, James, Scorpius, Hugo, and a younger teen Albus doesn’t know. “I decided to ask my wealthy peers, and friends, to see how they deal with their own struggles with wealth.” Albus nearly laughs,  _ struggles with wealth _ . Poorer people are probably rolling their eyes right now, what do the wealthy have to struggle with? Albus knows wealth and is well aware it doesn’t buy happiness, but he’s also aware that his life would be infinitely worse if he were miserable as well as poor. 

Teddy is first on the screen, and his grin is wrapped around a cigarette when he responds to a question none of the audience hears. 

“I was about five when my godfather returned a good portion of the family fortune back to my gran--that’s the first time I ever saw her cry like that,” Teddy sounds bored, flicking ash into a crystal ashtray. It’s not his, Albus is certain, because Teddy would die before he bought himself a crystal ashtray. “She’d been disinherited by the lot of her family for fucking a Muggle bloke, and I know she struggled with that.” He’s got a sheepish expression, rubbing the back of his heavily tattooed neck when he confesses, “She gave up a lot to be with my granddad. She was used to a certain style of living, and when she ran off it was vastly different. You know?” He makes a vague gesture, “Once the rose-tinted world wore off after their bond had settled, she was stuck. Without a family, without a fortune, and all she had was love.” His laugh is humourless, showing Albus a side of Teddy he’s never before seen--a cynicism he didn’t know existed in Edward Lupin. “And she once told me you cannot live on love. Love isn’t what makes the world go round. It’s money.” A deprecating laugh follows those words, before Teddy adds, “I don’t agree.” 

James is next, sitting in some Quidditch locker room unlacing his leathers while wearing a playful smile. “I mean, yeah,” he, too, responds to a question the audience cannot hear. “Having money gets me laid. Let’s not lie and say that it’s my personality--we all know that my personality is shit.” Dad looks positively embarrassed by that and places his face into his hand while Mum shoots a glare at the James in Gran’s yard. Then the James on the screen says, “Honestly, I think they approach me because of my dad, my mum, my Quidditch career, my siblings--then they realise I’m fuck rich and they want to linger longer.” Lorcan’s voice comes, asking if any of them last long. “Fuck no,” James cackles on the screen. A full body laugh that shakes his shoulders and makes his hazel eyes bright, “Longest relationship you have in this life is a week--unless you’re dating one of your own social standings. And, let’s be honest--I’m either related to them or they’re a fucking bore.” He settles back on the bench, swinging his legs with a thoughtful look resting on his face, “I’d like to find that person who is looking at me, not my fame or money or my dad. That’s the roughest--you get the fans who want to fuck a Harry Potter knockoff.” 

Dad, Albus notices, appears horribly guilty at that. Mum pulls him close, whispering something into his ear and he brightens a little. 

On screen the location changes--showing the long, white sandy beaches of an island while Lorcan’s voice carries over the moving image. “Rich as my family is, there are some families who are richer still, and one of them owns this vacation spot.” Now the scene is a vast, open stone home, and as the view pans around Albus sees nothing but palm trees and cerulean sea. “The Mirrored Isle is owned by the wealthiest family in England--The Malfoy Family--and has been for several generations.” 

Scorpius is seated in a dark wingback, with his legs crossed and a hand resting comfortably under his chin. The platinum of his signet ring catching the light, and Albus wonders if that was on purpose. They’re not in the beach house, now, but what Albus assumes is Scorpius’s flat in Knightsbridge. The one reporters tend to stalk on the regular. The carpets are too dark to be Malfoy Manor and the furniture, while expensive and well made, is not the centuries old heirlooms Scorpius often fucked Albus over. 

“Before I answer that,” Scorpius tells the offscreen Lorcan. “I have to tell you that this is rather unusual, and is considered lowbrow to discuss. Money,” Scorpius’s smile appears sharp, predatory. “Is not meant to be talked about. Chavs talk about money, Malfoy’s do not--or so my father has always said.” 

“Noted,” Lorcan replies, then presumably repeats the question, “How much would you say your family is worth?” 

“Depends on the member you’re asking about.” Scorpius reaches for a cigarette and lights it with a snap of his elegant fingers, reclining back, creating an image of an arrogant prince. “My father is worth something like three hundred billion--I can’t tell you the exact number because, well, he’s going to shit when he hears about this. My grandfather is worth a little more than that, I think. A good majority of his positions passed to my dad when he inherited Malfoy Manor, The Mirrored Isle, the developments in France, the real estate in London, and then there are all the other ventures he’s started himself. Fallen Star’s Apothecary is my dad’s hobby, because every fuck rich kid needs a hobby. That’s where you’ll find him most days. Even though he’s got thousands of other things that need his attention.” 

Lorcan hums, sounding thoughtful, before he asks, “What about your grandmother, she’s worth more than your father, yes? She’s a bit of the Black fortune, I’ve heard, and that will fall to you and your son?” 

Scorpius give a thoughtful hum of his own, tapping the arm of his chair, “What you’ve got to understand about the Black family is that they are nobility. Old money always is--be it dukes, earls, viscounts, queens, kings, etcetera. Old money is of a bluer vein. New money, like the Malfoy family, is not, and that rubs ol’ Lucius something awful when you point that fact out to him.” Scorpius’s grin is mean, and it makes Albus’s belly flutter. “But the Black family has been around since the first kings of the country, and my gran has a title of duchess. I can’t tell you her specific title because I’ve never much cared about all that. And she doesn’t go announcing it every time she enters a room. Apparently, my grandfather tried to work her title into every conversation with other people while they were courting, and her mad cousin, Sirius, offered to castrate Lucius for being a braggart.” With an amused chuckle he adds, “I live, so clearly that never came to pass, and Lucius quit bringing up her noble birth. I can’t say if I’ll inherit a title--I’m not too sure how all that works. My father finds it to be in poor tastes to discuss such things.” He shrugs, appearing casually disinterested.  

“You didn’t answer my question,” Lorcan points out. “Is your grandmother worth more than your father and grandfather?” 

Scorpius’s smile is enigmatic, “She is indeed.” Lorcan tries to pry further, but Scorpius ignores the question by asking one of his own. “What do you hope to discover asking me all these things?” 

“If money can make you fulfilled and happy,” Lorcan replies as if his mad intentions are obvious. Only Lorcan and his fanciful mother can see the intent in their weird ways.  

Scorpius’s laugh is bright, yet somehow burdened with feeling. “Foolish child, don’t you already know the answer?” He shakes his head, bemused, “Money is only good for masking misery. It won’t make you happy, all it can do is serve as a distraction.” The camera fades to black.

Teddy’s pub, one of four he now owns, is the next focus. “This is my first place,” he gestures around. Hell Gate looks terribly barren without its crowd and lights and screaming. Albus thinks it seems like a ghost of itself, and he can, sadly, commiserate. “I’ve since opened a few others--because my lady love was tired of craving a cock up.” His laugh is all humour and his  grey eyes shine with mirth. “This one I opened so that I could have a large enough place to get piss sodden, play music, and fuck around with a larger group of Omegas.” He has a glance about, hands on his hips--lost in memories, when he adds, “Now it’s where I come to think about the past and remind myself it’s not all bad growing up.” 

“Do you ever feel like you’ve made something of yourself,” Lorcan enquires, sitting by Teddy in one of the barstools. 

“Fuck no, but I’m happy with my life. I have to be or I’ll fall into a bottle,” Teddy opens a beer passing it to Lorcan before grabbing one for himself. “I mean, you can sit around all day worried that you’re never going to climb out of the shadows of your origins, or you can say ‘piss the fuck off’ to those shadows and just live.” He clinks their bottlenecks together, the action almost musical, “Trust me, mate, you’ve got big shadows. I’ve got big shadows. Jamie’s got them. Scorpius’s are so dark and deep they might as well be demons, but we’re all moving forward.” 

“I just feel like I don’t deserve any of it,” Lorcan admits. Teddy nods, appearing sage--another side Albus never would’ve guessed existed in Teddy Lupin. 

“All of us feel that. The world feels it, too. Best you can do is take it one day at a time, try your best, and live your dreams,” almost cocky Teddy chuckles. “Fuck, mate, you’re fuck rich--if you can’t live your dreams then who can?” 

Albus feels those words in the centre of his gut--like a knife through the middle. 

*

He goes home after, most of the film he’s forgotten already but he remembers Scorpius. He remembers Teddy’s words, too. And they make him braver than he’s ever expected he could be. 

Orion’s image flickers across the frames on his bedside cabinet, in a few Scorpius smiles as well, and the grin makes Albus recall Scorpius’s final bit of interview. 

Filmed on The Mirrored Isle Scorpius had stood on the shore, shirtless, with tattoos that rippled from the movements of his muscles. “Will you marry,” that was Lorcan’s question. 

“I will,” was Scorpius’s response. Albus had gasped in the middle of the yard, and Lily shot him a worried frown. “Maybe, I mean, I’ve got to find someone who will accept all of my broken pieces.” He shrugged on screen, “I’ve got one who seems like there might be potential, but Orion is my world. And I don’t know if I can bring someone else in. He’s happy with just me, with just my dad, and his grans and granddads. But I know he wants a mum, you can hear it--almost like wistful longing in the saddest songs.” 

Orion’s mum longs for him too. 

VII.

_ And their intentions are not pure _ _  
_ _ Like yours  _

 

Dominique gives him her ticket to the festival in Pilton. “I'm up the spout; I'd rather be home sleeping.” She has a serene smile as she rubs the lower part of her stomach. “Ted’s helping Scorpius with setup while Baz will be playing backstage with Orion and Draco. They don’t need me there.” 

“Why not Lily,” Albus is truly curious. Lily's the music lover in the family. 

“Lately, you seem like you need music,” is Dominique’s elusive reply. 

He stares down at the iridescent slip,  _ Hallow’s Eve  _ whispers in and out of sight--written in smoky font--beneath the word: Headliners. 

*

Pilton is full of thousands, upon thousands of Wizards and various creatures. All of them are dazzling in glitter, body paint, and little clothing. There’s not enough Aurors to stop the passing of illegal potions, the copious amounts of public sex, and intense fights that break out when the drunk sods get a knot in their knickers. Albus frowns; feeling like a bore when he hopes Scorpius does all he can to keep their child from this mess. 

The bands all bring a certain energy to these vast fields, lighting people up the way Flitwick used to light the trees of Hogwarts around Christmas. Albus is curious about that, how music can affect these people so deeply. He’s never understood that elation, but when Scorpius rises from beneath the stage--lit by the golden glow of a spotlight--Albus learns. 

The tune begins, a quick rhythm, thrumming through him and draws Albus in when Scorpius starts singing. Sound washes over him, like a familiar caress, and Albus stands still amongst the mass of bodies who begin jumping and screaming along. Scorpius’s grin is wide as he jumps with them, riling the audience up more. 

Somewhere in the song Albus begins being able to make out the words, and they are a vice around his heart. Especially when he watches the way Scorpius sings them--with a passion and fury that looks cathartic, but that the crowd mistakes as high energy. 

“ _ We were born to be together, torn apart, torn apart, _ ” even though the crowd is deafening as it parrots along; Scorpius’s smooth, soothing voice is all Albus hears. “ _ You stepped with a heavy tread _ ,” he moves closer to the edge of the stage, pointing and grinning at the screaming people gathered at the gate. “And left your mark.  _ Oh, oh, oh, your mark on me _ ,” one of the people’s hands Scorpius reaches for and many reach back, hoping to be touched. He’s a god on that stage. “ _ The space you used to fill is now this great black hole. _ ” Behind him the lights release sparks, fire glitter that causes people to cheer. “ _ Oh, oh, oh, oh. You’re out of sight but not out of my mind. _ ” He runs a hand through his bright hair, “ _ And it hurts like hell. To be torn apart. And it hurts like hell. To be thrown around. _ ”

It feels as if they are the only two in this massive field of bodies--Scorpius is singing to Albus; no one else. And for Albus,  _ it hurts like hell. _

*

Scorpius plays for hours, two or three--Albus cannot say for sure. He just stands amongst the crowd, unmoving, watching as Scorpius’s body dances about the stage. After the first song, Scorpius had spoken and talked of how the record came to be.  Now he’s spilling trite words about how the band all feels grateful for the affection of their fans, about how everything in the music is his version of healing and how Scorpius hopes that it heals others too.

“I want to sing you a song about the greatest love of my life,” Scorpius announces to the crowd while he wears a blinding smile. He turns his head to a place off stage, where Albus is sure their son is waiting in the wings, and his grey eyes go fond. Behind him is a Live Screen, and it’s played various splices of film--all members of the band, their lovers, family members, friends--it’s like a loving home-pensieve, composed of all the best bits of their life. And now...now it’s playing the greatest moments of Scorpius’s. 

The memories are hard for Albus to watch. Each is a whip to his tender heart. Orion sleeping against Scorpius’s bare chest, as a small baby, drooling while Scorpius is knocked out--sitting up against the headboard Albus used to hold while he was fucked. 

Orion walking, talking, flying on a broom with Scorpius. Orion laughing, crying, sleeping--just being. 

“ _ Let those fools be loud, let alarms ring out, ‘cause you cut through all the noise, _ ” Scorpius’s voice blankets the fields with a powerful, yet quiet intensity. “ _ Let the days be dark, let me hate my work, ‘cause you cut through all the noise. _ ” Behind him, there’s flashes of black and white film--Scorpius in monotony, looking lost and dejected. 

Then Orion, running, every touch of his feet bringing colour to the scenes. Along with a smile to the Scorpius on the Live Screen. “ _ Bring me some hope, by wandering into my mind. Something to hold onto. Morning, noon, day or night, _ ” he jumps and behind him the large Orion on screen crashes into Scorpius--turning him from black and greys to bright colour. “ _ You were the light that is blinding me. You’re the anchor that I tie to my brain. ‘Cause when it feels like I’m lost at sea. You’re the song I sing again and again. All the time, all the time. _ ” He waves to the side of the stage, gesturing for the hidden Orion to join him--and Orion does, running out to jump into his father, as he had on screen when Scorpius sings. “ _ I think of you all the time _ .” 

“Orion,” Scorpius says, interrupting the song--much to the joy and excitement of his fans. “Thank you for being born. You are the greatest love of my life.” 

Small arms wrap around his neck as Scorpius lifts the child. Continuing to sing while his son clings to him--the microphone picks up the sounds of Orion telling Scorpius he’s the greatest dad in the world.

By the end of it, when the instruments fade away leaving only the strong ring of Scorpius’s voice in a capella, Albus is chock full of emotion. Scorpius’s eyes feel as if they are on him when he sings the final line, “ _ I think of you all the time. _ ”

He grins, patting Orion on the back, while he thanks the crowd. “You’ve been fantastic--now we’re going to do that thing where we pretend to leave, and then come back out here to play you an encore song.” That startles a laugh out of Albus and most everyone else. He clasps his hands, grinning despite his tears when Scorpius holds the mic out to Orion, whispering, “Say Goodnight, mate.” 

“Goodnight,” Orion shouts; there’s a collection of aw’s amongst the goodnights that respond, then Orion and Scorpius scamper offstage--hand in hand. 

Albus decides he needs to leave before Scorpius comes back out. 

*

Perhaps it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the memories--the ones that linger like ghosts that refuse to leave. Albus doesn’t know what makes him write the letter. 

Crimson ink blooms across the parchment, sloppy due to the unsteady shake in his hand. 

_ Scorpius, _

_ I still remember the first time I fell asleep beneath the black duvet on your bed. The one your gran gave you as a gift for the previous Christmas--or so you said when I traced fingers over the patterns of silver stitched constellations. I was nervous, you know, and felt terribly naive in comparison to you. You were beautiful, smart, kind, and worldly. I woke beneath that duvet to you, beautiful you, at ease in slumber. Skin naked and soft as I traced my fingers over the set of potions scales you’ve tattooed on your bicep. Black and grey forever swirled in white skin. I wanted to be in you like that, too. And I am, aren’t I? Deeper than that ink can ever go. I’m the true mar on your skin, as you are on mine. I feel you, Scorpius. Still, you are that call in my soul. The one that whispers when I least want to hear it, and roars when I’m searching for you. Come find me, you say, but I’m afraid. I have never been what you want. I can never be that ideal. I am too weak to chase you but too proud to allow you to chase me. I’m a contradiction, and I will never be anything else. I need someone to love me, the way I think you can, the way I thought you might’ve before I bollocked it all up. I don’t know if you can forgive me. I can’t even forgive me, but I want you to, Scorpius. I want you to love me as much as I think your music says you do. _

_ When you’re ready, my Floo is open,  _

_ Albus  _

He sends the words off before he can think better of it--before he can read them and bemoan his lack of point, his rambling prose, his feelings that seem more like a vomit of words on a page. As he watches his owl take flight, Albus pours himself another large glass of wine; thinking of that first time he went to Malfoy Manor. The first time he fell asleep beside a person who was not a relative, the first time he woke feeling a different kind of safe and warm. 

“Shit,” he had hissed after he woke to a dark room, and he tried to dislodge himself from beneath Scorpius’s arm. Too panicked to admire the set of potions scales Scorpius had freshly tattooed on his bicep. The first of many that would come later--after Albus was gone from his life.  

“Is it night already,” Scorpius had yawned, rolling away from Albus and running a hand through his messy hair. Bleary eyed he glanced at Albus, and a soft smile stole across his mouth--robbing Albus’s lungs of the ability to breathe. “Hey,” he had whispered, in a low tone that was the siren luring Albus to sea. And like that Albus was once again drawn into his embrace. 

“I should go,” he had protested, but he didn’t mean it when he captured Scorpius’s mouth again. “Really,” such a weak sound before he’d dove in, to taste more of Scorpius’s kiss. 

“Really,” Scorpius had grinned against him, pulling Albus nearer. 

What became frightening to Albus was how easy it had been to fall into that rhythm with Scorpius. It was almost like they’d been friends for years, and their companionship felt as natural as it did when he was with his family. Yet, somehow better. 

They spent the days and evenings that Draco was away in Scorpius’s home. At first, there was a lot of furious fucking--over all sorts of furniture. Scorpius whispering filth about how he wanted Albus to cleanse all surfaces of the manor’s dark past. He’s still not sure Scorpius realised what he’d said in the heat of those moments. He would often talk as if Albus was salvation and Albus welcomed the worship; arching and crying out mercies as Scorpius used his mouth to suck Albus off. 

After a week or so the frantic need passed--became languorous and loving. Albus spent more time in Scorpius’s room, after his personal mission to stain every surface with Albus’s come had been accomplished--naked they had talked about nothing as they shared comfort in each other’s presence. Scorpius shared his mother’s pop-up plays with Albus, whispering the lines against Albus’s ear while the little, ancient paper actors recited them with more gusto. He would grow hard and Scorpius would grin against his neck, pulling him off as he whispered Romeo’s words of devotion. Albus had always despised that particular play and Scorpius had expressed his own disgust with it the first time they watched  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , but it became Albus’s favourite when he would come to the words of teenage stupidity--spoken in Scorpius’s low drawl. 

Months later, while he laid pregnant in bed, he thought those stolen moments, in Scorpius’s room, to be a horrible omen. 

*

He never expected a response, not really, so when the twilight between dusk and dawn is blanketing the earth Albus doesn’t think he will have company. But he’s wrong. Like he has been so many times before. 

An angry fist beats against his wards, and Albus feels him before he’s even opened the door to his flat. Because, of course, he lets him in. Even while in rage Scorpius is someone he desires. 

“You,” it is a hiss most foul. Spat in a manner that sounds as if the word tastes vile. Scorpius manages to keep from touching Albus, but only just. He looks on the brink of reaching for him, shaking him, doing  _ something _ . The way his scar burns Albus is willing to bet it would become a violent coupling. And he’s open to the idea. 

Instead, Scorpius throws a balled up wad of parchment at Albus, and in a terrifying tone that sounds identical to Draco’s explodes, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve sending me this...after all this time.” 

Albus swallows, watching as the parchment rolls against the hardwood floors, stopping when it hits the foot of one of his chairs. “I...” he hasn’t got an excuse. So he stops, his word hanging there--stagnant like this thing between them. 

Scorpius runs a hand through his hair, mucking it up, and Albus notices that the whites of his eyes are pinking--as if he’s trying everything he can to not cry. “I was over you,” his voice is cracked, bleeding emotions he’s trying hard to conceal. “I am happy.” Then with a little more anger, he adds, “We’re happy.” Albus knows the  _ we  _ is referring to Scorpius and Orion. 

Before he can remind himself it’s stupid to mention Orion, Albus whispers, “He’s wonderful.” 

“Stay away from him,” Scorpius warns, sounding desperate and not terrifying like Draco had been when he’d warned Albus against the same thing. Scorpius seems as if his warning comes from a place of fear--fear of losing his beloved son. 

Albus understands, after meeting him, Orion is everything. 

“He’s my son,” and everything deserves some sacrifice. 

“He’s  _ my  _ son,” Scorpius is furious again. “You didn’t want him, remember?” 

Albus reaches for him, but Scorpius jerks his arm away. “Stay away, Albus. Please,” and he feels wretched when Scorpius Disapparates. 

*

_ It isn’t fair _ . That’s what Albus thinks when he sees Orion and Scorpius in one of his gossip rags, vacationing at The Mirrored Isle. On the shore with bright smiles as Narcissa and Draco watch them play from beneath the shade of an umbrella. 

He’s seen more and more private candids of his ex-lover and child since Pilton’s festival, and Scorpius’s announcement that his band is going on a large tour in a couple of months. They’re in every magazine, on all the Lives Albus passes in Diagon, and even Lily mentions them more often. 

“Just fucking quit,” he screams at the bloke who is behind him, digging into his hips--but not deep enough, not like Scorpius. 

“Jesus, Al,” the man mutters, scrambling away from him while phantom music rings in Albus’s ears. 

“Get out,” he whispers, forgetting the bloke’s name--he’s some friend of James’s. Because James had been a complete prick, telling Albus he needed a good dicking--he hadn’t meant any harm, and Albus has been in a  _ mood, _ to put it mildly. 

“Al,” this man tries. 

“That’s not my name,” his reply is cold. “Get the fuck out.” 

*

Everything about Teddy’s club will always make Albus remember Scorpius. The smoke, the heavy scent of cheap piss and sweat. Neon lights, throbbing bass, screamed rage at the establishment, the angry beat of drums, the shrill cry of guitars. Heavy breathing at his ear, teeth in his flesh, hot hands searing against warm skin. 

These are the things he lives to regret losing. 

Hell Gate is as dodgy as ever. Dim and full of smoke and the scent of ale. It makes Albus’s head spin, so he drinks what the bartender hands him to try and drown the memories. He shouldn’t be here. 

The beat of the drum thrums through him, his heart tries to speed up to match it. He’s dizzy as he jumps alongside these people who are screaming; releasing whatever burdens their soul. Albus yells with them. Tears streaming down his face as he tries to relieve the vice that tears at everything within him. 

In the corner, later--when he’s screamed himself raw, there’s a familiar head bowing down to capture the mouth of another. His scar stings, angry and betrayed, burning him with the need to shout for Scorpius to stop. Only he doesn’t. Albus just stands there, silent, wondering who is home with Scorpius’s child while he fucks another. It shouldn’t bother Albus. It doesn’t. It does. 

Scorpius’s flavour is a taste that lingers, branded in his tongue as surely as Scorpius’s teeth are branded in his shoulder. He yearns to taste it again, but knows--when Scorpius glares his way--that he will never have that taste again. 

*

He tries sending more letters. 

They all return unopened. 

His latest one has a message scrawled across the back. 

_ If you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll have my father contact the solicitor.  _

*

He’s surviving on Scorpius’s preferred brand of cigarettes, Pepper-Up, and vodka by the time his spring-summer collection is unveiled at Paris fashion week. Scorpius is on tour, Albus has been glued to the papers--supposedly he’s also in France this week. The only Malfoys Albus has the displeasure of seeing during a few showcases are Draco and his mother--Narcissa isn’t so awful, but she’s not Orion, so she, too, is a disappointment. 

Victoire is with him, since Dominique said she’s too large to travel, and she is noting things down as his models strut across the runway. Baz is Albus’s favourite. He acts like he’s a god, and Albus is charmed despite his misery. “Your assistant has been trying to get ahold of you,” Victoire whispers to him when her Mirror vibrates and a smoky message appears across the screen. 

“I don’t want to listen to Bindy, her voice annoys me,” he responds. Albus doesn’t mean it; he’s actually quite fond of the woman, but lately he’s not been in the mood for her inane chatter about his responsibilities. Work reminds him he hates his life, for the first time ever, and it feels lonely. 

“She said there’s a contractual obligation you’ve been avoiding,” Victoire’s tone conveys her annoyance with him. She’s all business, and no-nonsense. Worse than Dominique and her mother, even, which is a terrifying truth. “You’ve only just kept from being sued, Al--don’t go ruining yourself before you’ve begun.” 

_ Too late. _ He thinks, but instead replies, “Who is the obligation for?” 

“That fucking perv, Henry Spencer.” She doesn’t sound terribly thrilled. 

Albus frowns, “The bloke who owns that trashy porn rag  _ Knot Your Omega _ ?” Henry tried to feel him up once at a Christmas party.  

“Yes,” Victoire replies, then taps her Mirror--having it replay her last message. “And it appears that you’ve agreed to pose in that trashy porn rag.” 

“What?” 

*

Henry is a vile American Alpha. He watches Albus like he is meat when Albus enters the room--Albus’s contract held loosely in his hand. 

“You’re on time, for once,” it’s a dig at Albus’s inability to keep with his clothing’s debut date. Albus doesn’t rise to his baiting, and Henry grins. Amusement sparkling in his beady brown eyes. “Now, let’s talk about your spread.” 

“Why,” Albus cuts to the chase, standing while unbuttoning his shirt. “You just want to have a look, don’t you? Or are you interested in a taste?” Albus is past the point of caring. Let them all have a taste; he’s never going to have a go with the bloke he wants again. Might as well spread himself thin; maybe he’ll die faster. 

With a snort, Henry drops the contract onto his massive desk, and grabs Albus by the wrists, “Pretty as you are I’m not interested in playing with you.” His grin is sharp, “Money is my mistress, Mr Potter. I’d get far more pleasure spending the money your body will bring me than I’d have if I bent you over this desk and fucked you for the afternoon.” 

“Surely you’ve prettier, younger Omegas you can use to make money,” Albus replies, settling into one of the chairs in the office as he does up his buttons. 

“I do,” Henry nods. Not in the least bit worried about catering to Albus’s ego. “But, you’ve got a lot of fans. Have since you were young and arching for your aunt’s perfume and clothing campaigns.” Henry steps closer, invading Albus’s space, “So many Alphas want to see you stretched on a knot, and I want to show it to them. Rile them up...make them crazy...show them what you’ve been hinting at for years.” 

_ Make them crazy _ , bounces around in his mind for long, silent minutes between them. “Fine,” he acquiesces. Before Henry can give a delighted smile, Albus adds, “But I’ve got conditions.” 

*

As he slips out of his black robe, allowing the silk to whisper down the back of his body, to the floor--all while the camera clicks away--Albus thinks,  _ notice me, Scorpius.  _

The Alpha he’s chosen is similar in height and build to Scorpius. Albus has the beauty artists make his hair almost white and directs them to create tattoos like Scorpius’s with liquid eyeliners. He oversees every minute detail to create this illusion, from jewellery to clothes to the small beauty spot he remembers resting, in the right crease, between Scorpius’s thigh and groin.  Finally, Albus presses his teeth into a mould so that the artists can create a temporary scar on this imitation’s wrist. 

_ Come for me, _ he prays as he lowers himself onto an echo of who he wants.  _ Bring me all your rage. _

*

Rita Skeeter is eating up his not so subtle declaration.  _ Albus Potter Possibly Bonded To Scorpius Malfoy?  _ The article makes him grin even as his dad and his mum are raging in his space. 

“How could you be so stupid,” is what they keep demanding, before going off on how irresponsible, childish,  _ whatever _ he’s being. Albus doesn’t pay much attention, he just lights a cigarette and settles back into his seat--watching them with mild amusement. 

While they’re there an Owl comes. Albus knows who it is from, the thick black envelope gives it away and even more the heavy silver seal of the Malfoy’s crest. 

Dad is the one who scans the letter, his frown growing when he mutters, “Draco’s going to sue you for everything you have.” 

“He can try,” Albus is unconcerned, his mother shakes her head. 

“Child, you’ve no idea what Draco is capable of,” she whispers, horrified with his apathy. 

“Maybe I don’t care. Let him take it all--he has everything already.” It’s true, Draco has Scorpius and Orion; all Albus has are things and money. Money and things no longer take away the sting of his mistakes. 

 

VIII.

_ I am trying to forget. _ _  
_ _ But I will always remember you.  _

 

He’s at the bottom of a bottle when Scorpius shows up, again; face as stormy as the last time. Albus reaches for him, grinning like mad, and Scorpius’s face grows from thunderous to concerned. 

“You don’t look too great,” he states, catching Albus when he stumbles back. “Albus,” and his voice sounds far away. 

Sometime later, he rouses to the sound of Scorpius’s voice--talking to someone Albus cannot hear. “Yeah, I’ll stay with him. If he gets worse I’ll ring the Healer.” A long pause, then, “I’m not going to promise to talk to my father. He’s pretty hellbent on ruining your son. I will ring you if anything changes.” 

Albus feels heavy, and cannot keep his eyes open. He drifts off to sleep, comforted by the palpable taste of Scorpius’s scent. 

*

Heat had never been something that was pleasant. Since he began them at thirteen he’d found them annoying as they filled him with aches. There was nothing intense, nothing making him gag for a knot, nothing that made him  _ need _ .

Until Scorpius. He’d been the dam that cracked and released the flood of those trite descriptions. The ones that made Albus feel weak. Even after Scorpius, the intensity had not died. As he’d been branded in Albus’s skin, the need remained. Only the suppressant potions had helped, but now...now Scorpius is here and nothing can suppress Albus. 

Albus wakes needing. It’s almost funny how he drags himself to Scorpius, keening as he grinds against his floor--requiring friction. It would be funny if he’d read this in one of Mum’s shit romances, in one of Lily’s comedic romance pensieves, or in James’s grossly misogynistic pornographic pensieves that are geared at Alpha pleasure. The reality is not funny, not in the least, and when Scorpius opens his eyes they go dark, pupils blown wide when his nostrils flare as they catch the scent of Albus’s lust. 

_ We are beasts, after all.  _

“Alb,” Scorpius husks, clenching his fists, grounding himself--seeking control of his senses. “Alb, you all right?” 

“I want your cock,” Albus groans, and he does. He’s not so out of his mind that he will regret this. How can he, this is all he’s wanted for years. 

Scorpius closes his eyes against the temptation, “Your dad will kill me.”  

“I’m not my dad’s property, I can decide for myself.” Defiance is clear in his tone, and Scorpius hisses--but before he changes his mind he reaches for Albus, hauling him closer. Pulling him onto Albus’s sofa, where he spent the night and invades Albus’s mouth with a searing kiss. 

“Don’t hate me tomorrow,” it sounds like a plea. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
